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DRAMAS. 



THE REBEL'S DAUGHTER. 

(By .J. G. Woerner and Chas. Gildcliaus.) 



INTO THE OPEN. 

IN THE OZARKS. 



^ BY 

CHAS. GILDEHAUS. 



ST. LOUIS: 

PRINTED BY THE AUTHOR. 

J903. 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Twc Copies Received 

MAY t6 1903 

C\J^SS^^ XXc No. 
COPY B. 



A 



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Copyright, lUOH, by Charles Gildchaus. 
All rights reserved. 



NIXON-JONES PTQ. CO.. 210 PINE ST., ST. LOUIS. 



"THE REBEL'S DAUGHTER" 

A DRAMA IN 5 ACTS, . 

BY 

J. G. WOERNER 

and 

CHAS. GILDEHAUS. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



Victor Waldhorst, in love loith Nellie May. 

Leslie May, payiiig court to Pauline Waldhorst. 

Ralph Payton, a suitor to Nellie. 

Professor Rauhenfels, a doctor of iJhilosophy. 

AuF DEM BuscH, a well-to-do merchant. 

WoLDEMAR, his son. 

Skip, a slave of Leslie. 

Nellie May, a Southern belle, Leslie's sister. 

Pauline Waldhorst, Victor's sister. 

Mrs. May, mother of Nellie and Leslie. 

Cressie, an octoroon, Nellie's slave. 

LiSE, a servant at Auf dem Busch's. 

Officers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, 



TIME: 1861-65. 

SCENE: Act I. The home of Auf dem Busch. 
Act II. Camp Jefferson. Act III. A hotel in a 
Southern city. Acts IV and V. Colonel May's 

HOME AT BrOOKFIELD. 

An interval of 6 months between Acts 1 and 2. 
An interval of 3 years between Acts 3 and 4. 
An interval of 6 months between Acts 4 and 5. 



ACT I. 



SCENE. — A Dra wing-Room in Auf dem Busch's House. 

(LisE arranging vases with floiDers.) 
Lise. We are going to have a fine party to-nigbt. All 
afternoon I've been washing the old dishes what stands in 
the glass cases. It's the first time we ever used them 
since I'm here, and that's already almost ten years. — 
But the table cloth with the pictures in was too short, be- 
cause we put all six boards in the table. Miss Auf dem 
Busch wanted only five boards, but Mr. Auf dem Busch, 
he wants six ; because he says, he wants plenty room. — 
Such a party makes much trouble in the house. Miss 
Auf dem Busch had a fuss with Hannah, our cook, be- 
cause she came into the kitchen to tell Hannah about fix- 
ing the snipes. Hannah says, she cooked for this family 
fifteen years, and what's good enough for us was good 
enough for the company. 

Enter Skip. 

Skip. Hello, gal ! Is Marse May h'feah ? 

Lis. I don't know who is Marse May. The geutlemens 
what's here for company is in the library with Mr. Auf 
dem Busch. 



8 THE rebel's daughter. 

Skij)' I guess he gwine come 'long dis way putty soon. 

Lis. You kin wait for him outside on the shteps. 

Ski2'>. And I kin wait fo'm right heah too. I's f om 
ole Koiituck, I is. Marse May's de finest gemman in dis 
heah Ian', an' Marse May's best nigger don't have to go 
sittin' on no do' steps. 

Lis. All right, you kin stand there till you get white. 

iSkip. Look a heah, gal. My Marse father, Colonel 
May, he's a congressman, an' wha's mo' he gwine to be 
a senator, an' wha's mo', one cr dese heah fine days he'll 
be president er dis heah whole 'Nited States. I's f'om 
ole KcnUick, I is. Wha's you f'om? 

Lis. None of your business. I come from Westphalia. 

Skijy. Dey's got some pow'ful good ham in West- 
phalicn. 

Lis. Wlitit you know about Westphalia Mams? 

Skijy. I done eat 'em in de White House. 

Lis. Nigo;ers ou^ht to eat in black houses. 

Skij). Hi, hi! — I's not been drivin' de Colonel's 
carriage in Washington fo' nuffin' dese heah fo' yeahs. 
De Colonel, he call on de president, and Skip he call on 
Sall}^ 'roun' de bnck way. An' da's wha' he git de ham. 

Lis. In this house we get just so much to eat as the 
president. Mr. Auf dem Buscli got a big grocer}^ on 
Main Street, and there we git ever3^dings we want and all 
for nodding. 

Skip {nosing about). Wha's you gov' nor keep his 
cigars ? 

Lis. He keeps 'em locked up so the niggers can't steal 
'em. 



THE rebel's daughter. 9 

Skip. Mighty po' man to work fo'. 

Lis. {taking a rose from a vase and fixing it in her 
hair). He's good enough for roe. 

Skip. Dem roses is po' fo'm at dis time o' yeah. Dat's 
wha' Miss May call a cracknonism. — Gimme a pin, gal. 
I's gwine to steal one er dese heah odder flow's {pins a 
chrysanthemum to his coat). Chrysanthebums, dey's de 
style fo' November. I's f'oin ole Kentuck, I is. 

Enter Leslie May. 

Les. What are you doing here? 

Skip. 'Scuse me, Marse May. I wan' know if I's 
gwine coming back heah to call fo' you. 

Les. No, send Sum here to wait with the carriage. 
Do you bear? 

Skip). Yes, Marse. 

{Ex. Skip and Lise by separate doors. 

Enter Auf dem Busch and Woldemar. 

A. d. B. Too bad, too bad! Already since a long 
time am I eager to meet Colonel {pronounce as spelled) 
May, and now misfortune makes us again a stroke through 
the reckoning. 

Les. Father, I know, regrets it no less than you. He 
has heard so much of you and yours through Victor and 
myself, that he felt himself accepting the invitation of an 
old friend rather, than of a stranger. But here's the 
message : he could not well ignore it. 

A. d. B. {reads). "Come to Brookfield by to-night's 



10 THE rebel's daughter. 

train. Agreement ready. All here. Marshall." And 
who is Marshall? 

Les. Mr. Marshall is father's secretary. 

A. d. B. And commands like a corporal. In this re- 
spect, Mr. May, we merchants are better off ; when out- 
side business calls, we send a clerk or a salesman, and 
remain ourselves at home. Is it not so, Woldemar ? 

Wol. Yes: from morning early until evening late, it 
is always business, business, business. One might think 
the entire universe were contained in the boxes and 
barrels of Auf dem Busch & Son. 

A. d B. Till 6 p. m., Mr. May. Then we hang our 
business on a nail and recreate ourselves. Business for 
business hours, Mr. May ; that is the maxim to which I 
owe my success. But after the clock has struck six, 
you cannot buy of me a barrel of sugar or a sack of 
coffee, — not for a dollar a pound. 

Les. We lawyers cannot keep time so well. 

A. d. B. Just so well, my young friend, just so well. 
Only the weak man lets himself be governed by circum- 
stances, the strong man governs them. It depends alone 
on us, whether it be so or so. 

Wol. It seems to me that we pay dearly for our leisure 
evenings, spending our days at the office entertaining 
storekeepers and peddlers ; all of them uncultured, and 
most of them unwashed. 

A. d. B. You talk without experience, my son. No 
doubt, it is quite beautiful to read Latin, and to know 
the history of the whole world ; and this to learn, I sent 
you to the University in Berlin. But, notwithstanding, 



THE rebel's daughter. 11 

I could name you some of our customers that are smart 
men, very smart men, Woldemar, although they know 
not Latin nor history. And for your second objection, 
the uncleanness, a little soap will wash it off, if it be 
merely on the outside. The main thing is, that they be 
clean on the inside and pay for what they buy. Hundred 
cents on the dollar; that's the main thing. Is it not, 
Mr. May? 

Les. I don't know much about the grocery business, 
Mr. Auf dem Busch, but it would be excellent advice for 
some of my clients. 

A. d. B. Yes, yes : I expect you can sing a little song 
too, of what is due, and still unpaid. — (To Woldemar) 
My son, guard yourself against pride. When you shake 
hands with a customer who makes his living with some- 
thing else than a lead pencil, forget not, that his hand 
may be greasy from handling the molasses and the fish 
on which he has already paid us a profit. When I was 
young, my hands were not so soft as yours ; for a long 
time I lifted boxes and rolled barrels myself. And 
what's more, I'm not ashamed of it. 

Wol. That I believe without a shadow of doubt. 

A. d. B. It was not always signing checks and drink- 
ing wine and beer with good customers, that I assure 
you. 

Les. Would it be impertinent, Mr. Auf dem Busch to 
inquire, whether these two delightful occupations 
complete the circle of your commercial duties? 

Wol. Oh, no: father also does the heavy thinking for 
the firm. 



12 THE rebel's daughter. 

A. d. B. That is right, young men ; laugh at me all 
you please. Forty years ago I laughed at my old boss 
for the same thing, and I hope both of you will have the 
good luck to be laughed at in the same way in forty 
3'ears from now. The old man who sits behind a desk 
piled up with telegrams and letters, may not seem to the 
draymeu and the porters to be a busy man, but he is. I 
can say it without boasting, Mr. May, that no man ever 
gave me anything. On every dollar I possess, Mr. May, 
there hangs a drop of sweat. 

Les. Your own, Mr. Auf dem Busch? 

A. d. B. What, my own money? 

Les. No, your own — sweat? 

A. d. B. Woldemar, Mr. May is a sharp lawyer. We 
will give him a case to try liis wits on by and by. But 
where are the ladies, Mrs. May and Miss Nellie? Ex- 
cuse me, gentlemens, I must find the ladies. 

{Exit A. D. B. 

Les. Your father is a fine man, Mr. Auf dem Busch. 
I like him. He doesn't wear many fringes on his 
clothes, but they fit him like the paper on the wall. Sup- 
pose we help him find the ladies. {Exeunt Les. and Wol. 

Enter Mrs. Mat and Nellie. 

Mrs. M. This whole affair, Nellie, is one of my son 
Leslie's political schemes, and he ought to be ashamed 
of himself to make a tool of his mother. 

Nel. For father's sake, mother dear. 

Mrs. M. I do hope a time, will come when men will be 
able to manage their own affairs, as we do ours, by 



THE rebel's daughter. 13 

themselves. Here we are invited to dine with people 
whom I never met in my life. There's our host now. 
I'm sure he's looking for us. {Exit Mrs. May. 

Nel. Senator May ! That's the theme. Father must 
win. To accomplish this, I'll play the part assigned to 
me so well, that men, and women too, shall clap and call 
me before the curtain. Faintly I see what Leslie wishes 
me to do. It is a part to my liking, and 'tis easily done. 
'Tis done already {knockiyig at the door). Come! 

Enter Leslie. 

Les. Ah ha, a disappointment, am I not? 

Nel. Why a disappointment, Les.? I'm your sistei, 
the only girl in this wide world who may indulge her love 
for Leslie May, and not be disappointed. 

Les. Ralph Pay ton has been invited, too. I met him 
in the corridor. How stand things now between you? 

Nel. In statu quo. 

Les. Ralph Payton will make his mark. 

Nel. And would you make a match? 

Les. That's woman's work. 

Nel. Then let me make one for you. How would you 
like a little fair-haired girl with ^merry dimples and rosy 
cheeks ? With eyes as blue as the deep sea, and a heart as 
true and faithful as that of King Cymbeline's daughter? 

Les. Pauline Worldhorst ! 

Nel. How well you guess. 

Les. But what makes you think of her? 

Nel. Oh, I can see with my mind's eye, Horatio, what 
kind of creature is most likely to attract a man who for 



14 THE RESELLS DAUGHTER. 

these many summers swims like a bubble on the sea of 
sopiety. 

Les. And what do you think of her? 

NeL She's too good ; at least too good for you. 

Les. You speak as if I wished to marry her. And 
uncle Auf dem Busch, what do you think of him? 

Net. Uncle, is it? You travel at no snail's pace. 

Les. It's all sport, Nel. You see, this Mr. Auf dem 
Busch has a son, a monstrously conceited only son, 
who was raised abroad, and imagines that we Americans 
are all either Indians or buffaloes. Now, this fellow, 
" made in Germany, " dotes on his cousin Pauline, but 
is so proud that he will never take her, unless she comes to 
him on her knees. 

Nel. Is that the German fashion ? 

Les. If it is, I'll show him how we do it here in 
America. 

Nel. To which Miss PauHne, of course, offers no 
objection. 

Jjes. Objection! Not a bit. You see, Pauline is a 
bit proud herself. Seems to be a sort of family trait. 
Her brother, Victor, is another specimen. I shall never 
forget that night when years ago we played mock- marriage, 
and you to favor him selected him for your bridegroom, 
and he refused. — He, who worshipped you with every 
breath of his life, and refused ! My, with what a tongue- 
lashing you dismissed him. But to him, a mock-marriage 
with you seemed sacrilege. 

Nel. Is he so rigorous still? 

Xes. Old Victor ever ; his conscience is his God. 



THE KEBEL's daughter. 16 

Net. He's firm with us? 

Les. We've elected him to the legislature. He's 
pledged to vote for father, whom you know he loves as 
well as we do. 

Nel. And he'll not backslide? 

Les. Not unless his ticklish conscience troubles him. 
He may have scruples. 

Nel. What, regarding slavery ? 

Les. He comes from a stock opposed to slavery on 
principle, but having lived in the South, he knows that 
slavery is a blessing to the blacks. 

Nel. What, then, do you fear? 

Les. Simply this : before the Democratic caucus meets 
to nominate its candidate for the United States senate, 
one State at least will promulgate secession. 

Nel. {eagerly). At last! Thank Heaven! 

Les. Listen to me, sister. 

Nel. Let us be men, and fight or die for 't! 

Jjes. The battle's ours unless we split in caucus. 

Nel. Yes, I see. 

Les. We must keep Victor Waldhorst in the traces, or 
else we'll not pull through. 

Nel. Indeed? This bashful, blundering boy has be- 
come a mighty power in the land ! — (^Refiectively) Is 
Victor Waldhorst absolutely necessary to father's 
election ? 

Les. Absolutely. 

Nel. Then send him to me. He shall vote for father, 
as sure as I was christened Eleanora. 

Les. But do not commit yourself to folly. 



16 THE rebel's daughter. 

Nel. He'll vote for father! 
Les. Hsh, I see Payton coming. 
Nel. Send Victor to me, Les. ! 

Enter Payton. 

Les. 'Tis a queen's levee, Ralph. I've had my audi- 
ence. You're next. {Exit Leslie. 

Pay. Thank you {joyously). Miss Nellie! 

Nel. Permit me, Mr. Payton, to shake hands with my 
friend, the congressman. How feels one when one is an 
honorable? 

Pay. In my case, I feel the honor outweighs the merit. 
With Colonel May's indorsement, any man in our dis- 
trict could have been elected as easily as I. 

Nel. You modest man. Take courage from the fact, 
that you would not have been elected unless my father 
considered you fit for the place. 

Pay. Ah, yes, I'm his debtor beyond all paying, and 
what's more, Nellie, I expect, by your permission, to be- 
come his greater debtor, still. When shall il be? 

Nel. {lightly). To-morrow or day after ; or next week 
or next month — but Ralph, not now. 

Pay. Then may I hope? 

Nel. Why not? " Hope springs eternal in the human 
breast," 3^ou know. And though the naughty poet adds, 
*'Mau never is, but always to be blest," why, you are to 
be blest in that you hope ; and that makes hope a bless- 
ing, does it not? Come, Ralph, these are not the days 
for love and dalliance. There is much to do, ere my 



THE rebel's daughter. 17 

ambition's topmost round is climbed. I would be 
daughter to a senator. 

Pay, Could I not work with better grace, if I were 
working for a promised father? 

Nel. In-law, why don't you add? No, sir. Why, 
every word of praise you spoke for my father would be 
all misconstrued by the world at large. Would the peo- 
ple not smile and chuckling say, " Young man, we see 
your game. These feathers you would gather are not 
for the Colonel's nest, but for your own? " No, Ralph, 
work as if you worked purely out of love for my father ; 
or better still, as if you meant it all for the country's 
good. 

Pay. Ah, cruel Nellie! 

Nel. What shall I do? 

Pay. Become my wife. 

Nel. The time's inopportune. 
WL Pay. Why is the time inopportune ? 

Nel. Because my father would be senator, and — 

Pay. And? 

Nel. And I'm his daughter. 

Pay. What am I to understand by that ? 

Nel. That when the sea runs high, and danger threat- 
ens, the crew and captain have no appetite for love and 
roses. 

Pay. I beg your pardon. 

Nel. There's no offense. When father is once safely 
seated, we shall find time for plan's beyond, Ralph. Till 
then no more of this. 

Pay. You'll break my heart. 

2 



18 THE rebel's daughter. 

Nel. I warrant you it will not break ; neither yours nor 
mine. We're both too — wise for that. Like the fiber of 
slow growing oaks, hearts grow tough with time. Let 
us be friends, Ralph. Here's my hand. 

Pay. You are sheer incorrigible. 

Nel. The worst may mend. See, there comes Leslie, 
and, as I live, Victor Waldhorst! 

Enter Leslie and Victor. 

(Payton goes aside loitlwut greeting Yic.^ but observes 
them intently.) 

Les. Nel., who's this? 

Nel. That's Victor Waldhorst. I am glad to see you. 
How you have changed. I'd not have known you if we 
had met by chance. 

Vic. (Deeply moved at the sight 0/ Nellie.) I might 
say the same of you, Miss May. 

Les. Be careful, Vic, she's almost twenty-three, an 
age at which it becomes ticklish to tell a lady that she 
has altered since — since — she was younger. 

Nel. Leslie, I'm suprised. — Avoid him, Mr. Wald- 
horst ; he is one who proves the saying that a fresh 
young man delights in stale old jokes. 

Vic. He loves to tease. But I still maintain, Miss 
May is taller than when last we met. 

Nel. A little, yes. You too have grown. Not tall, 
but more complete. 

Les. Come, let us measure. So, back to back. Yes, 
Victor is the taller. And yet I'll wager, she'll outgrow 
the difference, if fashion so commands. 



THE rebel's daughter. 19 

Vic. How so? 

Nel. Hsh, Leslie! 

Les. By wearing hair and heels a little higher. 

Nel. Leslie, I wish you'd find mother. I haven't seen 
her for ever so long, and I fairly yearn for her. 

Fay. {aside). She wishes to be alone with Waldhorst. 
By and by, she'll send me like her brother on some 
errand. This must be looked to. Did she but now put 
me off in order that she might greet Waldhorst with an 
unpromised hand? I'll stay to hear what follows (i^icks 
up a book and pretends to read). 

Les. Hello, there's Ralph Payton! And with a book. 
Tell me, what says the master? 

Pay. The author writes: " Salutation blows more bub- 
bles over the greeting of two acquaintances that have not 
met for a term of years, than at the meeting of the best 
of friends." I think it true. — ( Tb Victor, coolly) Good 
evening, sir. 

Vic. (coolly). Good evening. 

Les. Come, Ralph ; the little girl has lost her mamma. 
Let's find her, or she'll cry. 

{Exeunt Leslie and Payton. 

Nel. This Leslie is a torment, is he not? 

Vic. I envy him his nimble spirit. Most men must 
creep to favor ; your dashing brother wins her in a dance. 

Nel. Do you see much of Mr. Payton? 

Vic. No ; very little. 

Nel. Why? 

Vic. O, I know of no good reason, unless it be that 
we are not congenial. 

Nel. He was not even civil to you now. 



20 THE rebel's daughter. 

Vic. I can pardon that. A better friend of mine than 
Mr. Payton might feel provoked to be interrupted as be 
was by Leslie and myself. 

Nel. At times he presumes to lord it over me like a 
man that had some claim. Presumptuous fellow! But 
let him rest: I'm glad we're rid of him. — And now, Vic- 
tor, since we still have a little time before dinner, I invite 
you to offer me your arm and escort me to a quiet nook 
in your uncle's library. And there you must tell me all 
about yourself. I want to know your whole history. 

Vic. (^ELhiE acceptmg his arm). My story is quickly 
told, and dull at that. I had far rather hear yours than 
tell you mine, Miss May. 

Nel. (taking her arm from Victor). Please now, do 
not Miss May me, or you may miss to please me. Smile, 
that's proper. It was a stupid pun. But since you 
dared to laugh, you must be punished. Henceforth, if 
you address me as Miss May, I will no longer call you 
Mr. Waldhorst ; nor Mr. Victor ; no, nor even Victor, 
but simply Vic. 

Vic. That were capital punishment, indeed. 

Nel. I don't believe you'd like it. 

(Exeunt arm in arm. 

Enter A. d. B. and Mrs. May. 

A. d. B. You see, madam, your son has qualifications 
what mine has not, and I wish he had. 

Mrs. M. And yours is rich in many qualities wherein 
mine is poor. 

A. d. B. That is likewise so. If we could mix the 



THE rebel's daughter. 21 

two together like the English mix their ale and porter 
what two fine fellows they would make. Mine should 
give yours one-half of his heaviness, and yours give mine 
one-half of his lightness. 

Mrs. M. And yet perhaps it is better as it is. 

A. d. B. Yes, yes, I guess so too. An average man 
is none at. all. All excellence lays in extremes. 

Mrs. M. And I have heard my husband argue that 
extremes meet. 

A. d. B. But here, like has found like, as the German 
saying goes. We elderly persons moralize, and see, the 
young folks have likewise found themselves, and — let us 
not disturb them. 

(^Exeunt A. d. B. and Mrs. May. 

Enter Leslie and Pauline. 

Les. But, Miss Pauline, not now. 

Paid, Yes, now. 

Les. A rose, out in the open air, at this time of the 
year ? 

Paul. Yes. 

Les. Will you play April fool jokes with me in No- 
vember. 

Paul. But this is true. 

Les. Who ever heard of November roses in the open 
air? 

Paul. It grows between the stable and a wall where 
the cold winds cannot reach it. 

Les. May I be convinced by seeing it myself? 

Paul. Certainly, will you go now? 



22 THE rebel's daughter. 

Les. I shall be delighted to go with you. 

Paul. It's nothing wonderful: it happens every year. 

Les. But not to me. It is the first time I've ever had 

the pleasure, and that alone is something, is it not? 

Paul. The newness soon wears off. 

Les. How do you know? 

{Exuent Leslie and Pauline. 

Enter Woldemar having observed Leslie and Pauline. 

Wol. This jackanapes of a lawyer seems smitten with 
Pauline. Poor fool, he doesn't know how modest 
women detest a trifling man. And how prettily Pauline 
smiled on the coxcomb. The little rogue! Was that 
intended as a hint for me! I think she knew I was 
watching them. Well, well, my little mouse, next time 
we meet I'll relieve your suspense, and with a word I'll 
bring to pass what has long been understood. 

Enter A. d. B. 

A. d. B. What, all alone? Well, may be you find 
that the best company of all. I tell you, Woldemar, 
these Americans have a polish, that is just unresistiblc. 

Wol. Of course. These Mays are descendants from the 
old colonists of Virginia, and boast a pedigree almost 
two hundred years old. 

A. d. B. Let it count for what it is worth. My ex- 
perience teaches me to follow the Bible : prove all 
things ; hold fast that which is good. I have of late 
years become what the Greek philosophers call an 
eclectic. 



THE rebel's daughter. 23 

Wol. Say, rather, you have become electrified. And 

here comes the battery : now mark how she applies the 

current. 

Enter Nellie. 

Nel. Have you seen Victor, Mr. Auf dem Busch ? 

A. d. B. Victor? I thought you had him under your 
wing. 

Nel. (^laughing). Why, yes, so I had ; but he has flown. 
Or, rather, he was sent for. We were seated in your 
library, and he was in the midst of his story, when a 
servant interrupted us with a message, saying some one 
wished to see Mr. Waldhorst in the parlor. Do you 
know who it is? 

A. d. B. If my fears have ground, beautiful lady, 
Victor is now under the ban of a magician, from which 
not even all your beauty can set him free. 

Nel. And what's the lady's name ? 

A. d. B. The lady is a man. 

Nel. Is she? Oh, if it is but a man, one half my fear 
is gone. 

Wol. I'll wager, it is Doctor Rauhenfels. 

Nel. What's he? 

Wol. He's a philosopher. 

Nel. Yes, yes. I think my brother mentioned him. 
What sort of man is he ? 

Wol. I said he was a philosopher. That one word 
defines him better than a whole dictionary of adjectives. 

Nel. Philosopher means a friend of wisdom. 

Wol. It meant that formerly ; now it means conceit 
and confusion. 



24 THE rebel's daughter. 

A. d. B. My son, you have to remember that a real 
philosopher is one who finds fault most with himself. 

Net. Little boys that flounder in the water are not apt 
to praise an expert swimmer. And so, perhaps, some 
of us dislike philosophy because we have none. 

Wol. Do you propose to learn ? 

Net. I'll guard my speech, Mr. Auf dem Busch, until 
I have caught a husband. For who can tell, but that 
some day I'll be much in love with a man who does not 
love philosophy at all. Until then I must not commit 
myself — {to the elder A. d. B.) will you help me find 
Victor, Mr. Auf dem Busch ? 

A. d. B. It shall give me the greatest pleasure. Come 
with us, Woldemar. 

Wol. I thank you ; no. 

A. d. B. {to Nellie}. This way, please. 

Nel. Thank you, sir. {Exeunt A. d. B. and Nellie. 

Wol. That's a speciman of an American woman : 
frivolous and mannish. Ten to one, she never cooked 
a meal nor sewed a stitch. Yet one of these days she'll 
marry and make some stupid fellow miserable. If I 
had anything to say,, they would soon follow the fashion 
of civilized countries, where the woman wears an apron 
and not pantaloons. She's as sly as a serpent, and 
played upon me with her sparkling eyes as if she had 
set her cap for me, too. But I'll be mighty careful, my 
dear young lady. I don't propose to wake up some 
morning and find myself defendant in a breach of prom- 
ise suit, {Exit Woldemar, 



THE kebel's daughter. 25 

Eyiter Victor and Nellie. 

Nel. And so you have become an editor, one of the 
powers that shape the policy of parties and of men ? 

Vic, We try to do it. 

Nel, What are my father's chances? 

Vic. Unless some miracle happen he is bound to 
win. 

Nel. O Victor, these many years, I have been the 
daughter of a Congressman, and now I crave promo- 
tion. You will lend a helping hand to raise me, will 
you not? 

Vic, My vote is all I have. But it, myself and all 
that I can do by word, act or example, is pledged to your 
father's support. 

Nel. I thank you deeply for this promise, Victor. 

Vic. There is no occasion for thanks. Where our 
duty pairs with our pleasure, the task becomes delight- 
ful. For your assurance. Miss Nellie, I'll go so far as 
to say that my endeavors had been enlisted in fealty to 
your father even against your pleasure. 

Nel. Victor Waldhorst ! Beware lest you make little 
of my friendship; it is hard to win, and since I am a 
woman, it is easily lost. 

Vic. Is there a better way to emphasize the love I bear 
your father, than to assure you, that I would for his sake 
willingly sacrifice what I cherish most? 

Nel. And that most, am I ? 

Vic. I mean — 

Nel. Nay, nay, you'v§ said it noWo Most fortunate 



26 THE rebel's daughter. 

for you, that father and myself are not opposed in this. 
If some strange chance had made us enemies, then your 
duty had been besieged by a woman's wit ; by pleading 
eyes, soft words and glistening tears ; by clinging touches, 
and wringing of white helpless hands. Believe me, a 
duty that men's iron cannot shake, a woman's weakness 
bends it. 

Vic. So it may. 

Nel. But happily our duty is not divided ; a singleness 
of purpose binds us all. My father loves us both ; in 
turn, I honor him, and likewise honor you ; whereas you 
think much of my father, and more of mc — than my 
deserts. 

Vic. I'll not subscribe to that. 

Nel. Oh, yes, you will. 

Vic. Will you repeat it for me? Perhaps I did not 
follow — 

Nel. Mr. Waldhorst, grant me a favor ? 

Vic. Anything. 

Nel. Forgive the rudeness I committed when years ago 
I left you in anger. I have long since repented, but my 
conscience will be ill at ease till it receive forgiveness 
from the lips of him that I offended. 

Vic. Oh, don't do that. Miss Nellie. Do not, I beg 
you, ask my pardon. Be like yourself, proud and mag- 
nificent. Destroy me with your anger, but do not rob 
my fond heart of his divinity. I am a proud slave and 
can serve none but the proud: a queen or none at all. 

Nel. I see, you are old Victor still: biilittling self and 
aggrandizing others. But you'll forgive me? 



THE rebel's daughter. 27 

Vic. (^warmly). Aye, ten thousand times ; and if hence- 
forth you sin ten thousand times, I shall ten thousand 
times forgive — {checking himself) I must go. 'Tis late, 
and I am not well. 

Nel. Oh, no, you cannot go like that. Why, you've 
been invited here to dinner. If you go, I sh^U be sorry 
that I came. For my sake, stay. (Victor's expression 
shows that he relents.) That's kind of you. It will 
seem like olden times to have you next to me at table. 

Vic. You must be lenient with me, the misery of my 
youth, this fault, to be so ill at ease, wears slowly off. 

Nel. Self-conscious men are men of lesser conscience 
than those whose heart we see. 

Vic {smiling). That's comforting. 

Nel. If you are sick of too much honesty, Victor, I'll 
be your doctor and prescribe against it. Yes, nor will I 
physic you with bitter pills. 

Vic. Of too much honesty ? 

Nel. That's your disease. But I can cure you. Shall 
I tell you how ? Come every day to see me, be my escort 
to balls, to banquets, and the theater. We'll walk about 
in crowded streets, and ramble side by side in the lonely 
paths of the forest. It matters not where, so we be 
together. There I will teach you how to prevaricate, to 
seem and pose : to wreathe your face in welcQjne when 
you are bored to death : to show indifference, while your 
heart leaps with joy. But all in sport. How 3011 frown 
on me, as if I were a monster that meant to steal your 
soul. I'm not so wicked, for, look you, the fees for this 
medical attendance shall be a most unheard of quid pro 



28 THE rebel's daughter. 

quo. I'll teach you how to fib, and, in return, Victor, 
you shall teach me to tell the truth. Is it a bargain ? 

Vic. A bargain which no mortal, least of all I, could 
resist. It only grieves me that your friendliness is 
lavished on one who lacks even the tact to say, I thank 
you. 

Nel. Now you've said it. 

Vic. Let me speak, Nellie. To my disgrace I stand 
here before you like a stupid fellow — do not contradict 
me — and yet in your eyes, I am most eager to be es- 
teemed. Ever since I was a boy, ever since first I saw 
you, your presence makes me awkward and confuses me. 
'Tis humiliating to confess it, and on sober second 
thought, perhaps I had not done it. But your kindness 
emboldens my heart and prompts my tongue to speak. 
I am no fool, although my behavior proclaims me one. 
Although you spurned me once, and with angry eye 
turned your back on me, you were still the angel that 
hovered over the dreams of my imagination. When 
to-day your brother told me, that I might come and speak 
to you, the long wish realized, destroys my self-possession 
and disconcerts me. My dream was fair, but now as I 
gaze upon it with waking eyes, the truth transcends it. 

Nel. Ah, Victor, if man's variable mood finds constant 
relish in one woman's favor, this shall be but the A, the 
initial letter, precursor of an entire alphabet. Oh, Vic- 
tor, human life brims o'er with sweets, to those that with 
the faculty of bees, sip honey from the perfumed flowers 
of time. Let fools drink poison! If you love me, Vic- 
tor, help to elect my father to the senate, and you shall 



THE rebel's daughter. 29 

be our guest in Washington from opening unto end. You 
shall command Eleanora May in all your wishes, and 
she'll obey you. 

Vic. Doubly then I pledge : doubly, for you, though 
singly for your father had been enough. 

JSfel. I hear some one approaching. Come, let us go in 
together. (Victor remams.) Victor, come! 

{Exit Nellie. 
Vic. This is the ground I step on, this my hand, 

This is the truth, though stranger far than fiction, 
Reality more wondrous than a dream ! 
I tremble what to do, lest what I do 
Undo what's well done. No, this is no dream! 
My goddess walks on earth and speaks to me : 
I saw her lips, her eyes, I touched her hand, 
And it was warm as mine. Her amorous breath 
Fans the long smouldering passion into life, 
Burn, burn my heart, she yet shall be my wife. 

CURTAIN. 




30 THE rebel's daughter. 



ACT II. 



SCENP]. — Camp Jefferson. The city in thk back- 
ground. Tents to the left: Sentinels. On the 
right, the overhanging limb of a tree projecting 

FROM THE scene: TaBLES, CHAIRS, ETC., UNDER IT. 

Discovered : A squad of gaily uniformed soldiers 
with brightly polished arms being drilled in the manual 
of arms b}^ a sergeant ; after a few manipulations they 
are marched out of the way. Captain Payton, in full 
uniform, looks on from the entrance to the foremost tent. 
As the soldiers leave, he turns to the interior of the tent 
and calls out : 

Pay. Skip ! 

Enter Skip. 

Skip. Yes, Marse? 

Pay. Run around to Captain May's tent and tell him 
to report to me. 

Skip. Yes, Marse {turns to go). 

Pay. Stay ! Deliver to him this order {writes on a 
sheet of 2)(iper and hands it to Skip). 

Skip. Yes, Marse. {Exit with military salute. 



THE rebel's daughter. 31 

Fay. That scamp puts on airs as if he belonged to the 
service. Leslie must teach him to remember his place. 
Come to think, I might have sent an orderly with the 
message or even an adjutant. It would have been in 
better military style. " Discipline," the General would 
say, " discipline is the soul of an army. Without dis- 
cipline an army is a mob." And now, that I am com- 
mandant of Camp Jefferson, it behooves me to remem- 
ber my dignity. I wonder whether Captain May has 
heard. I shall insist on his giving me my full title as 
commanding General. 

Enter Leslie in full uniform. 

Les. Good morning, Ralph. 

Pay. {with pomposity). Sir, you forget. We are in 
service. 

Les. {saluting). Pardon, Captain Pay ton. 

Pay. General, sir : General in command. 

Les. {saluting^ ivith a slight smile). Pardon, General 
Pay ton ! 

Pay. {saluting gravely). Colonel May. 

Les. General, I have the honor to report in obedience 
to your order as Captain May. 

Pay. Ah, Colonel, you have not heard. The General 
and all the regimental officers have been summoned to a 
conference with the Governor. Between ourselves, I 
would not be surprised if an attack on the arsenal w^re 
ordered in a day or two. One hundred and sixty thou- 
sand stands of arms there. Enough to arm our whole 



32 THE rebel's daughter. 

militia, and carry the State into the Southern Confeder- 
acy in spite of itself. 

Les. You think so? 

Pay. Meanwhile in the absence of the General and of 
every staff otficer belonging to the camp, the command 
devolves upon me, as the senior captain of the first regi- 
ment of the brigade. As you are next to me in rank, 
the command of the regiment falls to you, and so you 
have the right to be addressed as Colonel. 

Les. A rapid promotion. I go to my bunk as Captain 
and leave it as Colonel. 

Fay. It beats Colonel Melnotte in the play. 

Les. And our glory will last about as long as a play. 

Pay. As long as it lasts, I mean to make the most of it. 

Les. What do you propose to do? 

Pay. I mean to order a regimental drill. 

Les. By Jove! In honor of the visitors we expect? 

Pay. Just so. 

Les. Well, then you ought to be about it, for they will 
soon be here {consults his watch). They named the hour 
of twelve. 

Pay. I have already given the necessary orders for 
the usual dress parade : the drill may follow or precede it. 

Les. What a pity you have no general's uniform to 
put on. It might open Nellie's eyes to your military ac- 
complishments. 

Pay. And an eagle on your shoulders, would, I dare 
say, interest Miss Waldhorst more highly than the double 
bars you wear. 

Les. Pauline takes interest in the man, not in the 



THE rebel's daughter. 33 

uniform. But I am afraid she will be shocked to see 
me in gray. 

Pay. Never mind ; our boys in gray will so impress 
her with their gallant and soldierly behavior, that her 
heart must relent. But we must entertain the ladies 
with something beside dumb show. Do you think I may 
draw on the commissary department for some wine.? 

Les. Is there such a thing in the camp ? 

Pay. There must be some left over from the banquet 
last night. Ho, there, Skip! 

Skip (withiny Yes, Marse? 

Pay. That darky of yours puts on airs as if he were 
a corporal. 

Enter Skip. 

Pay. {to Skip). Say, is there any wine left in the 
store ro®m from yesterday's banquet? 

Skip. N'ar'y drop, Marse. Didn't see no wine 'bout 
't all. 

Les. What, no wine at the officers' banquet? 

Pay. Scamp, do you mean to tell me there was no 
drinking yesterday ? 

Skip. Lots o' drinking, Marse, but no wine. Dey 
didn't drink no wine, 'cause dey had none. 

Les. They didn't drink water, did they? 

Skip. No, Marse, 'cept dis mawnin. Yest'day dey 
done drink pain. 

Pay. What, pain? 

Les. {severely). Skip, don't poke off your old chest- 

3 



34 THE rebel's daughter. 

nuts on us. Do you pretend not to know what cham- 
pagne is? 

Skip {brightening). Dat's it, Marse May: dat what 
dey call it: sham pain. Says one o* de cap'ns, say 'e, 
stand'n up: shampain to my real frien's an' real pain to 
my sham frien's. An' dey all drink an' larf an' say, 
good, good. 

Les (smiling). Well, even chestnuts may be good on 
fitting occasions : the pun may have been as good as new 
to some of the boys. Skip, if the champagne yesterday 
was as dry as your joke to-day, I should like to have 
some of it. 

Skip (laughing). No joke, Marse May, fo' some of de 
cap'ns mighty dry dis mawnin'. An' no sham 'bout deir 
pain. 

Pay. But is there any of the champagne left? That is 
a question more to the purpose. 

Skip, Guess dere's some in a box. It's just like de 
boxes de big black bottles come out. 

Les. A whole box of wine left after a drinking bout of 
heroes thirsting for military glory? There must have 
been a good supply. 

Skip, 'Twas'nt none ob deir fault, hya, hya! Dar 
would 'nt o' been none lef, Marse May, if dey had 'a 
seen it. 

Pay. Scoundrel ! Did you hook it? 

Skip (indignant). Hook it? What you think, Marse? 
I's f'om ole Kentuck, I is. Der was a pile ob straw 
come off'n de bottles 'n empty boxes piled on, an' no- 



THE rebel's daughter. 35 

body knowed noth'n 'bout dis yere box till I cleaned up 
de camp dis mawnin'. 'N den I found it. 

Les. All right, Skip ; trot along, now, and bring the 
box here for the General's inspection. Hurry up. 

Skip {lingering), Ya — as, Marse. Must 1 bring it 
out heah? I'll — I'll open de box an' bring de bottles. 

Pay. Stir your stumps. 

Les. Say, Skip, you need'nt mind opening the box. 
Just bring it as it is. (Skip exit^ scratching his wool. 

Pay. How about glasses. Colonel? We can't ask the 
ladies to drink out of the bottles. 

Les. Let Skip alone for finding glasses. He'll not 
grudge us those, however he may hate to part with the 
wine. {Noise in the tent as of hammering at a box.) 

Pay. What's that? What is the rascal doing? 

Les. He's opening an open box. 

Pay. What do you mean? 

Les. You'll see in a minute. {He-enter Skip with ayi 
open case of wine on his shoulder^ ivhich he sets down.) 

Skip. Dar', Marse May. I jis done op'n de box 
'cause de hatchet was handy. 

Les. {examining the straw around the bottles). Ah ha, 
the hatchet was handy this "mawnin," was it? And 
the champagne knife was handy too, eh? But look here, 
Skip, I guess you made a mistake, didn't you? Did you 
intend to bring us an empty bottle ? {Holds up an empty 
bottle from which he has stripped the straw.) 

Skip. Dat dar bottle empty, Marse May? Golly, it 
must 'a leaked. 



36 THE rebel's daughter. 

Les. Yes, Skip, I guess it must 'a leaked. How do 
you suppose did it come to leak? 

Skip. Could it 'a been rats, Marse r I done seen some 
pow'ful big rats round de camp. 

Les. It was a powerful big rat. Skip, that sucked the 
wine out of this bottle. The rest of them appear all right. 

Pay. It was you, you thieving scoundrel! How dare 
you lie to us in that outrageous fashion ? 

Les. General, you ought to know our darkies better. 
To a Northerner it would appear, of course, that Skip has 
lied ; but I know that he was only showing his politeness. 

Pay. Politeness? 

Enter an Orderly, saluting. 

Ord. {to Payton). Two ladies and two gentlemen de- 
sire admission. They gave a curious name, but I have 
forgotten it. 

Pay. AufdemBusch? 

Ord. That is it. 

Pay. Let them enter. {Exit Orderly. 

Les. Skip, while we attend to the visitors, do you pre- 
pare the table, and fix up a snack to eat. 

Skip. Yes, Marse. 

Pay. Lay plates for six, and put the wine on ice. 

Skip. Yes, Marse — {aside) If dar ain't Miss Nellie! 

Eiiter 'Nellie, Pauline, AufdemBusch and Woldemar. 

Pay. {advancing to meet the visitors'). Ladies and 
gentlemen, you honor us, and I am happy to welcome 
you in our camp {shakes hands all around). 



THE rebel's daughter. 37 

Les. (bowing to all^ and shaking hands with Pauline). 
This is an honor ; and what a treat to us. 

Nel. I dare say it is a relief in your monotonous, lazy 
life to have somebody to admire your military play- 
school. 

A. d. B. I make you my compliment, Mr. Payton — 
])ViVV-don! Mr. Captain! — at the military spirit in your 
camp. 

Wol. Yes, your sentinel put on the gravity of a veteran 
grenadier when he accosted us. 

Nel. (^mimicking). "Halt!" "Who goes there?" 
" A friend," says Mr. Auf dem Busch. " Advance, 
friend, and give the countersign." " Auf dem Busch," 
says Mr. Auf dem Busch. " False. The countersign is 
Beauregard. Say Beauregard, or I'll shoot!" {^Laughter 
by Patton and A. d. Busch. ) 

Paul. What a lovely place you have chosen for your — 
bivouac^ do you say in soldier parlance? 

Les. I have never seen the place so lovely as I find it 
since you have called my attention to it. And I would 
cheerfully bivouac here for the sake of such delightful 
company. 

A. d. B. Bivouac, my child, sounds like it is French. 
It is, however, not. It is how the French say '* biwake" 
(^pronounce bewaak-a). The Dutch say so to camp 
under guard. Have I right. Captain May? 

Pay. Colonel May, sir! Colonel in command of the 
regiment. 

A. d. B. Colo-nell ! Ah, how soon you climb. Shall 
you be general to-morrow? 



38 THE rebel's daughter. 

Nel. How is this, — General — Colonel? — Where is 
your General? 

Les. Behold, his Excellency, General Payton, com- 
mandant of the Post. 

Wol. What sanguinary battle has made such havoc 
among your officers? Yesterday, you were both cap- 
tains, as I understood. Tell us the history of this swift 
promotion. Have your superiors all fallen? 

Skip (aside, laughing). Fallen under de tables: 
battle wif de bottles. 

Les. The Governor has called his wise men to a coun- 
cil of war, and so the camp, depleted of its staff, is left 
in charge of such lesser lights, as myself and {bowing to 
Patton). 

Nel. For shame, Colonel: General Payton is your 
superior officer. 

Les. Yes : he ranks me by five minutes. His commis- 
sion as captain is just that much older than mine. 

Paul. Five minutes ! Is that all the difference between 
a colonel and a general ? 

Wol. Such is the chance of war, even in play. 

Pay. Play, do you think, Mr. Auf dem Busch? — Some 
of these days we may meet again: and then, perhaps, 
you may find that we pla}^ here to some purpose. 

Paul. Will there really be war, Mr. May? 

Les. Why, yes, I hope so. Would it not be too bad 
if we had gone to all this trouble for nothing? Shall we 
have no opportunity to show off our military prowess? 

A. d. B. It is right to make ready for war. Because 
when we get ready for war, it shall be often that we have 



THE rebel's daughter. 39 

none. And so, Pauline, if these young warriors be ex- 
cellent soldiers, they may scare off war. 

Pay. Be not too sure of that, Mr. Auf dem Busch. 
There are conditions under which peace becomes less 
honorable than war. 

Les. Give the word, General. Skip's batteries, I see, 
are in position. 

Pay, Yes ; and meanwhile we will show the ladies and 
these gentlemen, that we have lost no time in fitting our- 
selves for a warlike profession {^writes and then calls). 
What, ho ! 

Enter Guard. 

Take this order to Captain Gray (gives the order to 
guard). We are ready to review the troops. 

(Exit Guard. 

Nel. A dress parade, General? Did you ever see one, 
Pauline ? 

Paul. No, I never did. 

Nel. It will be a grand sight. (Drum and fife behind 
the scenes.) 

Paul. Oh, there they come ! ( While they seat them- 
selves, Skip pours and presents the wine. The drum and fife 
approach nearer. If deemed best, there may noiv be a 
drill of the soldiers, either wholly or partly on the stage: 
if on the stage, Payton gives some orders; if not, the words 
of command are only heard. ) 

Pay. Let us, ladies and gentlemen, drink this to our 
country. 

A. d. B. Our country, the glorious Union ! I have 



40 THE rebel's daughter. 

better right as you to say mine : it is mine from choice, 
yours only from chance. 

Les. Good for you, Mr. Auf dem Busch ! You have 
us there. 

Nel. And yet, Mr. Auf dem Busch, we are the natural 
children of our country: you but her foster child. 

A. d. B. Yes, and fostered she has me well. 

Les. The child has been fostered into a pretty sub- 
stantial man, according to Bradstreet and Dun (^command 
from without). 

Paul. Oh, see how they swing around! Just like the 
spokes of a wheel. 

Wol. You ought to see the Prussian fall maneuvers. 
Thousands upon thousands moving to the word of com- 
mand like one piece of perfect mechanism. 

Nel. Yes, it is marvelous, indeed. But if our boys in 
grey had one half the drill, I'd back th^m against the 
crack regiments of Europe. 

Wol. {surprised). What, have you been to Europe, 
Miss May? 

Nel. {keeps her eyes on the parade while speaking to 
Wol). With your permission, yes. 

Wol. And how does America compare with Europe? 

Nel. Well, what shall I say. We did all Europe in 
one summer and had a good time. Do you still care for 
my opinion? 

Wol. Yes, go on, please. 

Nel. Then give me Europe for six months or a year: 
America, for all my life. 



THE rebel's daughter. 41 

Wol. strange perversion ! Europe teems with culture. 
America has hardly put forth a leaf. 

Nel. For my part, I prefer spring to summer. 

Wol. And crudeness to culture? 

Nel. (turning to Wol). Manhood to abject cringing. 
Mr. Auf dem Busch, to me it was a piteous spectacle to 
see the great mass of a nation crawl in the dust before 
the titled few. Counts, barons, dukes, lords — I've seen 
them all, spangled like gypsy women, and about them 
the multitude gaps reverence. 

Wol. These titled few have acquired the skill to rule, 
from father to son, through many generations. 

Nel. Why should one man hold privilege over another 
by virtue of some ancestor's good deed? Is it more 
enlightened to acknowledge rule in the chance of birth 
than in the proofs of merit? Which of the two is the 
better credential? Thank heaven, that here we rule, not 
by the grace of God, but by the votes of men. (Nellie 
crosses to opposite side.) 

A. d. B. {clapping hands). Bravo! Aha, Woldemar, 
what will you say to that? 

Wol. (crossing]toward Nellie without noticing A. d. B. ). 
Yes, by men who vote, not as their judgment prompts, 
but as directed by demagogues and tricksters, who bar- 
ter office for cash or pledges to the highest bidder. In 
well ruled states, the foremost duty of a citizen is his 
obedience. 

Net. To himself alone, through those whom he 
selects, — to others, none. Yours is the standard by 
which men govern slaves : obedience, or the lash ! 



42 THE rebel's daughter. 

WoL Indeed? And is your negro not entitled to free- 
dom as well as the white man? 

Nel. That depends. To those who theorize upon the 
subject in Yankee States and German schools, no doubt 
he is. But to us Southern people, who wear him — 
please excuse the homely phrase — next to our skin, I 
don't believe he is. 

Wol. Oh ho! Your freedom's logic has a flaw. 

Nel. Suppose it has. And should therefore the seal- 
skinned Esquimo compel the Hottentot to wear his furs? 

WoL You lecture like a school ma'am. 

Nel. Thank you, sir. I wish I might accept your 
compliment: but since I have not the honor to be a 
school ma'am, I must decline. 

Wol. School ma'ams are a forward institution one 
rarely meets in Europe. 

Nel. So I hear. 

Wol. The're millions of them in America! 

Nel. That need not trouble your supremacy. For 
Europe has a formidable off-set in a hundred thousand 
barmaids serving beer. You see, we girls are coming 
to the front, and choose professions, chacun a son gout — 
or rather, each one does as best she can. There beer- 
mug, here a book. 

Pay. Skip, fill em up again! {Drum and fife playing 
Dixie heard in the distance.) Here's to the American 
girl, the pink of creation! {A file of soldiers approach 
to the tune of Dixie, ) 

Nel. And the boys in gray, her gallant defenders! 

{Enter a file of soldiers: while they cross the stage,, Nellie 



THE rebel's daughter. 43 

sings: " Away down South in the land of cotton, etc." 
(Patton, Leslie and Pauline join in the chorus. The 
music marches oj^.) 

Wol. This tune seems to strike a popular chord here. 
It is a nimble tune to dance a jig by. But will it 
march? (Star-spangled Banner played by a brass band is 
heard in the distance.) 

Paul. Listen ! 

Les. What is this? Is this music by your order, 
General ? 

Pay. No. 

Les. What, — not by your order? 

Pay. No. 

Paul. Look, they break ranks, — they scatter. 

A. d. B, Can it mean that a misfortune has happened ? 

Nel. See, the whole camp is in uproar. What men 
are those marching in long file from the hills yonder? 

Pay. Skip, my field-glass — quick. 

Skip. Yes, Marse. {^Exit quickly. 

Les* (^jumping on the table). By Jupiter, there is a 
column advancing from this side, too ! 

A. d. B. And there ! 

Re-enter Skip. 

Pay. (^taking the glass from Skip). We are sur- 
rounded — blue coats — by heaven! 

Les. I'll see what it means. 

Pay. Stay, Colonel May. 

Net. See those horsemen riding towards us across the 
valley. 



44 THE rebel's daughter. 

Pay. A flag of truce {flourish of trumpets zoithout). 
Les. What on earth can it mean? 

Eriter Rauhenfels, attended. 

Chorus. Rauhenfels! 

Bau. Who commands here? 

Pay. Address yourself to me, sir. 

Bau. I am sent by General Lyon to demand surrender 
of this camp. 

Chorus. Surrender? 

Bau. Within ten minutes. 

Les. And what authority has General Lyon to interfere 
with troops assembled here by order of the State? 

Bau. My business is with your commander. 

Pay. Make known then your authority to me. 

Bau. For one thing, sir, we want the arms that you 
have stolen from the government. 

Pay. Sir, what arms? 

Bau. The arms unloaded here this morning, plundered 
from the federal arsenal at Freeburg, and which this 
very night you mean to use in an assault upon the 
arsenal here. 

Pay. Sir, if you came here to insult us, remember that 
I am in command. 

Bau {smiling). No longer, sir. You and your fellow 
conspirators are not in command, but prisoners. While 
you gossipped over your wine here, you have been sur- 
rounded by ten thousand men and twenty batteries. 

Pay. Infamous! 

Les. Some day, I hope, you will regret this outrage. 



THE rebel's daughter. 45 

Nel. Cowards! You come like thieves in the night. 
Shame on such warfare ! 

Rau. Cleaning out a nest of rebels, fair lady, makes 
no pretense to warfare {taking out his watch). Five 
minutes more, gentlemen: shall I have your swords? 
Or shall I report your refusal to General Lyon? 

Pay. Sir, there are ladies present here, and honored 
guests. For their sake I would not have blood shed 
{surrenders his sword). 

Les. {to Nellie). It would be madness to resist 
{surrenders his sword). 

Rau. {writes on a paper which he hands to A. d. B). 
Mr. Auf dem Busch, this will take you and your son and 
the ladies safely through the lineSc 

{Exeunt ladies, A. d. B. and Woldemar. 

Rau. {to his attendants). March them off. 

{Exeunt Payton, Leslie, and Attendants. 

Enter Victor and an Officer, attended. 

Rau. (io Victor). Hello, Victor — what brings you 
here? 

Vic. A message from the general — {to the officer) 
This is Colonel Kauhenfels. 

Off* {saluting, hands a sealed letter to Rauhenfels which 
R. reads). 

Rau. {Looks at Victor and motions the officer and at- 
tendants to withdraw). And what have you to do with 
this? 

Vic. Nothing. The General requested me, as one well 
acquainted with you, to point you out to the officer. — 
What success here? 



46 THE rebel's daughter. 

Bau. It's all over. The commandant has surrendered : 
he and all the camp are prisoners. Do you know the 
content of this paper ? 

Vic. No. 

Rau. Then listen — {reads) " I have unquestioned 
proofs that Colonel May is implicated in the removal of 
arms from the government arsenal — " 

Vic. Can this be possible? 

Bau. All things are possible. 

Vic. But Colonel May — he cannot be a traitor. 

Rau. Why not he? He is supposed to be in this camp, 
and this warrant commands his arrest. He is known to 
be a prominent member of Congress, and his punishment 
will furnish an example. 

Vic. Thank God, he is far away. 

Rau. How do you know? 

Vic. He left last night, and is by this time many miles 
from here. 

Rau. He must have smelt a rat. 

Vic. But he cannot, cannot be a traitor! 

Rau. The tide runs high, and will ingulf many a thou- 
sand that to-day stand firm. 

Vic. Be merciful, great heaven ! Do not constrain me 
to choose between two hells. If Colonel May prove 
traitor, what of me ? It cannot be — it must not, shall 
not be ! 

Rau. Come, Victor, calm yourself. 

Vic. I cannot grasp it yet. It falls like thunder out of 
a cloudless sky. 

Rau» What falls like thunder? 



THE rebel's daughter. 47 

Vic. To think that Colonel May should connive with 
avowed enemies of the government ! Why, this is trea- 
son, down-right treason ! 

JRau. The North and South stand on the ragged edge : 
and any moment may bring news of bloody work. 

Vic, Is it not horrible ! 

Rau. To you or me, whom it may cost an arm or leg, 
'tis very bad. But man is an animal whose history will 
not dispense with war. 

Vic. Great God, if Colonel May turns traitor, then, in 
a common man, rebellion is no crime. 

Bau. Yet let us hear the man's defense before we 
judge him. 

Vic. Defense ! What defense is there for a man who 
would sacrifice his country for his party ? 

Bau. What is his country? 

Vic. This United States. 

Bau. Well said. But mark you, he was born in the 
South. There all his interests lie, his family and his 
friends. His lofty station, he holds it from his State: 
and for his State, if he's a man, will sacrifice all these. 

Vic. Although his State is in the wrong ? 

Bau. According to the creed of a States Rights Dem- 
ocrat, the State is never wrong. 

Vic. Then there is no criterion for right and wrong? 

Bau. Oh, yes: you have heard Decatur's motto: Our 
country ! May she ever be right : but right or wrong, 
our country! 

Vic. Am I to understand, then, that in case of civil 
war North and South can both be right ? 



48 THE rebel's daughter. 

Rau. Even so : and both be wrong. Young man, the 
vice and virtue of this world are not distributed i:i distinct 
flocks, like sheep and goats, so that one could point 
with his finger, and say these are the sheep and these 
the goats. 

Vic. But right is right, and wrong is ever wrong. 

Rau. Just so: and in the end the right will win. 

Vic. Meantime, we shall sit by and see our Union dis- 
rupted into petty States. 

Rau. Who told you that? 

Vic. Your words imply as much. 

Rau. No, sir. For as the South claims Colonel May, 
the North claims us. We by inheritance, by custom 
and by nature, are opposed to property in man. That 
in us, however, is no particular virtue : for half the vil- 
lains think just as we do. Our comfort is, that when 
the war god plays this game, that you and 1 will be 
among the cards he deals to the winning side. 

Vic, Are you sure of that? 

Rau. As sure as there's development in man. It is a 
piece of ancient barbarism to hold that men may be the 
property of other men. Let us be thankful, Victor, 
that our conscience chimes with our inclination. Colonel 
May is not so fortunate. He knows full well, that if 
the South insists on unrestricted slavery or secession, 
that both will fail. Let us think of him in pity, not in 
anger. 

Vic. Rauhenfels, cannot this be averted? Cannot 
slavery wear slowly off, like a contemned custom that 
men will learn to hate? 



THE rebel's daughter. 49 

RaiL. No, my young friend. Beside the principle 
there is involved some thousand million dollars. The 
South, by statute and by constitution, holds clear title to 
her slaves, as good a title as you and I can hold to any 
chattel, or to a farm and houses. True it is, that free- 
dom for all men, white and black, is to be wished ; but 
those at whose expense this human betterment is to be 
purchased, will fight this betterment with tooth and nail. 
The North, were things reversed, would do it us hotly as 
the South. 

Vic. Then must the Colonel be my enemy? 

Rau, Unless yourself turn traitor to yourself. 

Vic. Not so! For if his course be honorable, I may 
in honor follow where he leads. 

Rau. How easily you say it. 

Vic. O Rauhenfels, you stand upon the frigid peak of 
reason and placidly look down upon mankind. I cannot 
reason : my heart and soul is centered in this man. 

Rau. And in his daughter. 

Vic. Aye, and in his daughter! You, that abide in 
the unpassioned clouds would govern this flame-beaten 
heart of mine with sceptered icicle. O, logic, logic! thou 
indisputable and sovereign monarch, thy kingdom is a 
desert ! (^Firing of musketry in the distance ^faintly heard. 
Tumult behind the scene.) 

Rau. What, will the fools attempt a rescue of the pris- 
oners? What can this hubbub mean? (^Starts to go out^ 
passing Victor who takes no notice. People running 
across the rear of the stage, as if in panic.) 

4 



50 THE rebel's daughter. 

Filter Nellie. 

Bau. Why, here is Miss May. What brings you 
here, and alone? 

Nel. Sir, have you not heard the volleys of musketry 
poured by your brave soldiers into the crowd of unarmed 
men and women? 

Rau. If they presumed to attempt a rescue of the 
prisoners, they must accept the consequences. 

Nel. They surely must. And women and children lie 
weltering in their blood, the victims of your military 
prowess. 

Bau. What has become of your escort? 

Nel. Gone : I know not whither — {seeing Victor) 
What, you here, too? 

Vic. {Gazing at her vacantly.) 

Nel. What is the matter, Victor ? 

Vic. Pray let me look at you. 

^e^. What ails you, Victor? 

Vic. {gazing on her intently). Nothing, nothing, — 
Nellie. Strange fancies enter in the dreams of men: 
'tis foolish to indulge them, yet how can I denounce the 
dream-god, when his golden promise lives in the ken of 
my material eje! 

Nel. Something of moment stirs you. Let me know 
it: it may affect me, too. 

Vic. 'Tis mine alone! The fiends of hell have 
stretched me on the rack, and all the host of heaven 
cannot free me! {Starts to go.) 

Nel. Victor! 



THE rebel's daughter. 51 

Vic. Farewell! 

Nel. {commandingly) . Stay, Victor! (Exit Victor. 
(Nellie stands gazing after Victor.) 

Eau. {after a pause). He is gone. 

Nel. Can you explain this odd behavior? 

Bau. His conscience pricks him. 

Nel. Why, — what has he done ? 

Rau. Nothing, but what he will undo again. 

Nel. Shall I infer from this, that your despotic rule 
compels this man to retract the pledges given Colonel 
May? 

Rau. You see, my riddle was an easy one. 

Nel, {regarding Jiim with a frown. After a pause 
slowly). My father told me, that it is not wise to meddle 
with what concerns us not. 

Rau. Ah, but this concerns me. Yes, I almost envy 
Victor Waldhorst this opportunity to prove himself — 

Nel. A promise-breaker ? 

Rau. {taking the paper from his pocket and flourishing 
it). I have known some people do worse than break dis- 
honorable pledges ! {Reyiewed tumult and shooting in the 
distance. ) 

CURTAIN- 



62 THE rebel's daughter. 



ACT III. 



SCENE. — May's apartments at a hotel in the city. 

Nellie {discovered). I have not slept all night. This 
Rauhenfels, I cannot banish him. Throughout the night 
I fancied Victor sitting at his desk writing the leader for 
his morning paper, and at his back the demon Rauhen- 
fels dictates what he must write. From Victor's pen 
streamed burning letters, from his eyes, hot tears: and 
as his lips twitched in the agony, the devil shouted, 
write ! {A knock at the door — Nellie startled.) Who's 
there? O coward: now migbt a baby fright me. 
(^Another knock at the door.) Come! 

Enter Payton. 

Nel. {recomposedly). Now surely, this is a morning 
call. 

Pay. Excuse the hour. Where is Leslie? 

iVeL, Why this haste? 

Pay. You've seen the papers? 

Nel. No. 

Pay. Not Waldhorst's? 

Nel. No. 



4> 



THE rebel's daughter. 53 

Fay. Then look at it (^gives her the paper). 

Nel. Your face alarms me, Ralph. What can have 
happened? 

Pay. Read it yourself. The editorial, there. 

Nel. Double-leaded, too. And Victor's signature in 
full (Nellie reads intently from here on) 

Pay. Translate it please ; I cannot read this Dutch. 

Nel. (^without taking notice of Payton). That's 
Rauhenf els : no other icy hand could chill so fiercely ! 

Pay. Loud, I pray you. 

Nel. Wait! 

Pay. Judas! 

Nel. (reads): " With heavy heart" — 

Pay. The hypocrite! I never did trust these for- 
eigners, and least of all these crackbrained Latin Dutch. 
Kicked out of Germany for their fantastical notions of 
liberty, they come to us and preach sedition here. Tell 
me, what does he write? 

Nel. (reading to herself). One moment. 

Pay. Damn his soul! If he makes trouble, I'll make 
it my duty to punish him. 

Nel. (Jetting the paper fall from her hands). He is 
gone! 

Pay. I'll pinch him for it. 

Nel. Leave that to me. There is nothing in those 
lines that offends you more than it offends ten thousand 
others. What private umbrage I may take at it, I'll 
champion that myself. 

Pay. Indeed! I'll tell you, Nellie, where the trouble 
lies : His German readers, they insist upon our perse- 



54 THE rebel's daughter. 

cution. Waldhorst writes for pay: he must write to 
please the Dutch, or else they'll stop his paper. There*s 
the rub. 

Nel. It is not that. 

Pay. What then? 

Nel. 'Tis Rfiuhenfels. 

Pay. But this is Waldhorst. 

Nel. Waldhorst' s evil angel. 

Pay. It shows poor judgment on your part to have 
placed such confidence in Waldhorst. 

Nel. How, confidence? We needed him, that's all: 
and therefore tried to use him. 

Pay. (aside). Is it so? Why, there's a crum of 
comfort. 

Nel. What he writes is held by many : it represents the 
views of a large faction but one step removed from 
being friends. We meant to win this faction by holding 
Waldhorst. 

Pay. He's a slippery eel. 

Nel. As late as yesterday, I would have laid my 
jewels against a siring of beads, that he was ours. 

Pay. I'll attend to Mr. Waldhorst — he'll not be like 
to trouble us in future {starts as if to go). 

Nel. Touch him not, Payton! If you do, you'll lose 
me. If my regard for you be worth the having, leave 
him to me. Let Victor Waldhorst' s treachery inspire 
you lil^e the curse that wrought a blessing — be you 
more true than he {offers her hand to Payton). 

Pay. Let Ralph Payton die, when he no longer con- 



THE rebel's daughter. 55 

siders it a privilege to die for you {drops on his knees 
and kisses her hand). 

Nel, Well said. Now I will bring this news to father. 
{Enter Leslie.) Leslie, what shall we do? 

Les. Let's think of that before the evening papers 
bring it in English. By three o'clock, a thousand news- 
boys yelling through the streets will publish our defeat. 

Nel. How will this end? {Walks to a table and 
writes. ) 

Les. Most vexed loss. Destruction kills but once, but 
when a friend joins the enemy, he's doubly mortal. 

Pay. Do not overrate him, Leslie. Of course, you 
must know best ; but for myself, I am right glad that 
Waldhorst shows his colors. 

Les. Strange joy. 

Pay. My dear friend Leslie, let me tell yoil this : The 
sooner we make up our minds to run this country without 
assistance from these foreigners, the sooner we'll suc- 
ceed. You're a pretty shrewd fellow, Leslie, and I'm 
surprised you did not see, what this outlandish upstart 
meant to reach by working for your father. 

Les. That I saw. But for the life of me I cannot see 
why he should balk at the very gate of his paradise. 

Pay. What do you mean ? 

Les. That some people are fools on principle, and 
others, fools by nature. 

Nel. {hands Payton a dispatch). Ralph, I wish you 
would send this message to father. 

Pay. With pleasure. I'll be back as soon as possible 
to hear what more develops. 



56 THE rebel's daughter. 

Nel. Come again — this evening, or to-morrow. 

Pay. Thank you. {Exit Pay ton. 

Les. Nellie, this Payton is not what I took him for. 

Nel, Neither is Victor. 

Les. No ; but foolish Payton would make us believe he 
saw it long ago and often warned us. All he knows about 
Victor is, that he too aspired to win you as his wife. These 
many years Payton looked down upon his rival, but nowi 
since Victor has grown to be a man of consequence, he's 
good enough to spit at. 

Nel. Jealousy ! What indiscreet and stupid things 
men do, when they are jealous. O Leslie, since we are 
done with him forever, a faint and far off possibility, 
what-might -have-been-perchance — but let it pass. What 
must be done ? Shall this ingratitude of Victor's succeed , 
and father fail? 

Les. The dice are cast. Victor here or there, I care 
not which. Six months from now we shall have another 
senate, and then our father will be senator in Richmond, 
Nellie. 

Nel. Victor then is lost? 

Les. No god can save him. Look what he says 
(reads from the paper)-. " We still maintain: first, that 
slavery is a question for the States to regulate, each for 
itself: second, that the slaves are guaranteed by Con- 
gress and Constitution, the lawful property of their 
owners." 

Nel. The very heart and soul of our true cause. 

Les. True, Nellie ; but when a man of Victor's intel- 
ligence and Victor's conscience utters words like these, 



THE rebel's daughter. 57 

and then concludes by saying {reads): " No State nor 
States are vested with lawful power willfully to alter their 
relation to the remaining States or to the Union. The 
Constitution can be amended only in the manner pre- 
scribed by the Constitution," — time's wasted on such a 
man! 

_Nel. Still you trusted him. 

Les. And could have held him until after the election, 
but for this Rauhenfels, who poisoned him with methods 
of his damned philosophy. 

Nel. What is his method ? 

Les. A trick of speech, that's all. A subtlety by 
means of which men like Rauhenfels prove any argument 
of their opponents to be fallacious. 

Nel. Well now, that is something. 

Les. But not all. For on the other hand, this Rau- 
henfels will make the mest absurd, unheard-of proposi- 
tions, and prove them valid. 

Nel. Still more wonderful. If it did not concern us 
all so nearly, one might be tempted to laugh at it. But 
this ingratitude of Victor Waldhorst amazes me. I 
wonder where he is? 

Les. Oh, he'll not hide. 

Nel. Ah, would that I might meet him. By Heaven, 
I'd hold a mirror to his face would make him blush hot 
crimson! ( A knock at the door.) Come! 

Les. That's he. {Eyiter Victor). A man may easily 
step to the front if he regards not what he tramples on 
(^picks up the paper). This is your paper, and the article 
which makes you to-day the most talked of man in 



68 THB REBEL *S DAUGHTER. 

the city, we both have read. I volunteer thus much, 
because your visit, painful to us all, should be a brief 
one. You may therefore pass the contents of your 
editorial, and at once proceed with what no doubt you 
came here for, your explanation. 

Nel. Or perhaps he came to ask forgiveness. 

Vic. Both. 

Les. Then out with it! Explain your course of action 
like a man. This hangdog visor of dejected sancti- 
mony sits ill on one whose rank effrontery committed 
this (^clutches the paper) ! 

Vic. I'm very sorry if — 

Les. Stand forth ! For if you slink into a corner like 
a whipped cur to whine for pardon, we'll think this act 
of yours not merely hateful, but likewise despicable. 

Vic. Leslie May, your sharp tongue stings a heart that 
gave it's all to be not despicable. 

Nel. Gave it's all to slab his benefactor in the back! 

Les. Waldhorst, whatever progress you have made in 
climbing fortune's ladder, you have mounted from round 
to round alone by our assistance. 

Vic. And therefore did I well nigh worship you. 

Les. With Hell's religion! Like a sycophant you 
smiled and fawned on your sustaining friends, until well 
poised yourself, you spurn the hands that lifted you on 
high. 

Nel. Ingrate! 

Vic. (^controlling himself). Miss Nellie — 

Les. Waldhorst, speak to me. 



THE rebel's daughter. 59 

Vic. You will not hear me. I come to you to ask for- 
giveness for a course that pains me more than you. 

Les. If that's your comfort, sir, it's no excuse. 

Vic. (^with suppressed agitation). I offer no excuse, 
and ask of you the justice to distinguish between sincere 
regret and penitence. Your friendship I deservedly 
have forfeited, not your respect. It is on this account I 
come to you, lest I should be misconstrued and con- 
sidered a man of guilty conscience. 

Les. Now, by Jove, you are good at guessing. 

Vic. But I am none such, and would in face of my 
hard condition, repeat what I have done. You see me 
here, because my private woe is not a matter for public 
news. What you see printed there, reads like the score 
of a winner's game, but fails to tell how dearly it was 
bought. 

Nel. Speak your mind freely. Nothing you can say 
shall anger us: yes, I will promise it shall not even in- 
sult us. But tell the truth. Tell what you were when 
first you came to Brookfield, and give due credit for the 
difference 'twixt then and now. Tell, how my father 
took you, an awkward boy that stood behind a counter 
bungling with calico and spools, and gave you free 
access to his books. Tell, how his children received you 
as a brother : how their friendship made you an honored 
and a welcome guest at every house in Brookfield. Tell, 
moreover, how father tutored you in state affairs : tell 
that he gave his secrets in your keeping as if you had 
been his own born natural son. Tell of my father's 



60 THE rebel's daughter. 

boundless faith in you, and in the end, tell how you 
thanked him for it with boundless treachery. 

Vic. For honor's sake. Pardon the boast. Not my 
vanity, your torture wrings my heart. But that you 
force me to play the braggart, I had far rather cut this 
tongue out of my mouth, than let it tell you, that Victor 
Waldhorst flung his world away to save his honor. 

Les. Say, to smutch it rather. 

Vic. Leslie, beware you tempt me not too far. 1 will 
be patient when you call me ingrate, base, heartless and 
devoid of fealty; but when you charge that I have 
pawned my honor, then, sir, you lie. 

(Leslie makes a motion to strike Victor. Nellie 
interferes. ) 

Les. {after a pause). Oh, for a definition of this word 
honor! Here a man breaks oaths, betrays his party and 
his friends, and then stands horror-struck because we 
doubt the pureness of his honor. 

Vic. Leslie May, these words of yours, although bitter 
in themselves, ease me in this, that they have turned the 
tables, and leave it now a case of little doubt who should 
ask pardon. 

Les. Mr. Waldhorst! 

Nel. Leslie, let him speak on. 

Vic. There is no more to say. If conscience be a 
slave to serve our uses, I have mistook it. Let my 
ignorance abide with me. 

Les. Still, you might give us your notion of it. 

Vic. (^pointing to the paper). There's my argument. 

Les. We have read it all twice over. 



THE rebel's daughter. 61 

Vic. Then you have read all I have to say. 

Les. Still, since you came, one might infer — 

Vic. Your inference, Mr. May, that I have further 
reasons than there stand writ, is inference drawn in 
error. Ii's my vocation, sir, to speak in print, and doit 
so, that what I write requires no glossary of speech. 

Les. Ingratitude. 

Vic. Towards you? 

Les. Towards father. 

Vic, I shall seekyoui father, and speak with him of my 
ingratitude. That's my affair and his. I owe you nothing. 

Les. Except the treatment due a gentleman: that I'll 
insist on. 

Vic. That, sir, you shall have, whether you will or no. 

Les. Are you not pledged to vote in caucus for my 
father as candidate for the senate? 

Vic. I am. 

Les. Are you not pledged in case he be nominated to 
vote for him in the general assembly ? 

Vic. I am. 

Les. And will you do it? 

Vic. Certainly: if Colonel May will stand as candi- 
date for senator of the United States, I'll work and vote 
for him. 

Les. Now mark the sequel, Nellie. 

Vic. But, if Colonel May intends to be a senator of 
some disrupted portion of our union, I'll work and vote 
against him. 

Les. Sophistry. 

Vic. Do not imagine, that my honor sullies, because 



62 THE rebel's daughter. 

your plans miscarry. I am with you while you proceed in 
union, for the union : and therefore when you instigate 
secession, do not mistake your falling-off for mine, nor 
soil my name with blots of treachery. If there be any 
traitor in the camp, 'tis you, not I. 

Les. (^sneering). Professor Rauhenfels is a great man. 
Come, Nellie, let us go. We are done with him. 

Vic. One word more. 

Les. With us? 

Vic, No, with Miss May. 

Les. With her alone? 

Vic. Yes, if she please. 

Les. (io Nellie). Shall I remain or go? 

Nel. {to Leslie) I am almost afraid to be alone with 
him, Leslie. There is something in his demeanor for 
which his tongue has yet found no utterance. 

Les. {to Nellie). I'll stay. 

Nel. (io Leslie). And yet, what should I fear. No, 
Leslie, go. 

Les. {to Nellie). I'll stay where you may call me. 

Nel. {to Leslie). My fear is gone. He will find him- 
self well matched if he attempt hot words. Go, Leslie, 
go, and do not interrupt unless I call. 

Les. (io Nel.). Do not try to win him back; he will 
never vote for father. 

Nel. Let me be. {Exit Jjeslie.) (To Victor): Well, 
sir, 1 am at your service. I can't imagine, what you 
have to say in private to me. This affair concerns my 
father and my brother. 

Vic. Your father is away : your brother spurns me. 



THE rebel's daughter. 63 

You alone are left to listen to me. If in happier days, 
you looked upon me as a trusted friend, who by his 
humble merits and your bounty hoped yet to win a dearer 
name than friend — 

Nel. Presumptuous fellow 1 how dare you assume that 
even the faintest notion of affection possessed my heart 
for you? 

ViC' It was no fault of yours: my unschooled soul, so 
glad to be deceived, led me in error, and taught my fond 
unreasoning heart to cherish a smile of yours more than 
the proffered passion of any woman else. 

Nel. Misguided man, what did I say? 

Vic. Say? Oh, you said no more than any sister 
might have said to her own natural brother. But you 
said it in such a way, that any man alive and not your 
brother, must have grown love-sick at it. 'Tis now six 
months ago since first we met, after so many years. And 
in that brief six months, whose end came yesterday, did 
you not let me revel, day after day, in joys unspeakable? 
O Nellie May, you but recall the tenor of your words, 
but not the voice that musically lent soft utterance 
to the indifferent syllable ; you but recall the tenor of 
your words, but not the eyes that eloquently spoke of 
things unknown to the vocabulary of the poor beggar, 
speech : those eyes, wherein you gave me leave to gaze 
until I read unbounded promises of joys to come. You 
but recall the tenor of your words, but not the breath 
that fell upon my cheek ; you but remember that 1 took 
your hand, but, not the touch that set my soul on fire — 

Nel. (^interrupting him) , Tictor! 



64 THE rebel's daughter. 

Vic. O God, that paradise should dwell in fitful clouds ! 
That nature's exquisites, the tip and pinnacle of all per- 
fection, should still elude me like the waving fruits of 
Tantalus in hell. O tyrant conscience, how dar'st thou 
burst into my sanctuary, and dash my idols toppling down 
the hill! What kind of god art thou, most mighty con- 
science, that for an abstract principle compels me to yield 
this concrete world ! Nellie, farewell ! And if at times 
you choose to think of me, remember one who loved you 
so completely, that he preferred to lose you, than become 
unworthy of you ! 

Nel. Strange enthusiast! 

Vic. 'Twill pass. There is surcease for every sorrow. 
And so I'll bear, that I have lost your father, and lost 
your brother, two heart-woven friends. Nor will I falter 
when my memory chides me with my ingratitude, — I'll 
bear that, too. I have much patience, and will pray for 
more. But who, alas, will save me from despair, when 
mockery takes me in a feeble hour, and in derision shows 
my bleeding heart the trick that conscience played me, 
aud calls me, fool, fool, fool! {Exit Victor. 

Nel. Leslie, Leslie ! ' 

Enter Leslie. 

Les. Where is the villain ? 
Nel. Victor is no villain ! 
Les. What is he, else? 
Nel. A man! 

CURTAIN. 

Cries of newsboys behind the scenes : ' ^Here's your extra. 
All about the secession of South Carolina.'' 



THE rebel's daughter. 65 



ACT IV. 



Scene: The mansion and grounds of Mat's Plant- 
ations NEAR BrOOKFIELD. MaNSION TO THE RIGHT: A 
LAWN EXTENDING TO A GROVE OF TREES ON THE LEFT: 
VIEW OF THE PLANTATION IN THE REAR. VeRANDA AND 
BALCONY. 

Discovered : Nellie, Pauline and Cressie, seated 
about a basket filled with beans which they are stringing. 
Skip gathering beans in the background. 

Nel. If you stay a month longer, Pauline, some man 
will some day owe you thanks for making a good house- 
keeper of me. 

Paul, It is not much that I can teach you, Nellie. 
Only such little things. 

Nel. Yes, there was a time when to me they indeed 
seemed little. But this incessant foraging by friend and 
foe teaches me better. Three years and more since this 
war is on. 

Paul. But it will be over soon. 

Nel. I hope so: for unless it is, it will soon be over 
with us, I fear {hrightening up after a pause). But will 
these green things be really good to eat all winter? 

5 



66 THE RESELLS DAUGHTSR. 

Paul. Why, of course. We'll pack them in a crock 
with salt, and then they'll keep till spring. Why, don't 
you remember, that you ate them at our house, when you 
took dinner with us ? 

Nel. What a clever girl you are, Pauline. Remember 
it, Cressie, with salt: for I may forget and put them up 
with sugar, like the pears and quinces we preserved last 
week. — Cressie, see whether Mr. Leslie wants anything. 

Cres. Yes ma'am. 

Nel. And — (^dropping her knife and rising) — bring 
me some court plaster. {Exit Cressie. 

Paul. Did you cut 3-our finger ? Let me see. 

Nel. A mere scratch. " Not so deep as a well, nor so 
wide as a church door," you know: but 'twill do for the 
beans. Now, that I am wounded as well as Leslie, you 
will be compelled to stay, Pauline. 

Enter Cressie — hands the court plaster to Nellie and 

then exit. 

Nel. You will not surely think of going home and 
leaving ttvo patients here to their fate? 

Paul. I am sure you are patient enough to take very 
good care of the other patient. Besides, he is getting 
impatient — 

Nel. No, no, Pauline: I have never known him 
so patient in his life. How fortunate for us, that you 
were here when he was brought home wounded. I hardly 
know what we would have done without you. You must 
stay just a week longer, indeed you must, Pauline, 
Leslie, you know, is not nearly well yet. 



THE rebel's daughter. 67 

Paul. Yes, I know that, for all he makes so light of his 
wound. Yet he chafes at confinement : he feels that he 
is needed in the field, although he is forever joking 
about the good time he is having at home. 

Nel. Skip, I see Tim driving up the lane. Run and 
see whether he has brought any mail. 

Skip. Yes, ma'am. {Exit Skip. 

Nel. This is a poor place for mall, isn't it, Pauline? 
We haven't had a letter or a paper for a week. 

Paul. I hope there has been no fighting to interfere. 
I am beginning to be really anxious about my folks at 
home. 

Nel. Why, here comes Skip with quite a bundle. 

Enter Skip bringing mail. Nellie hands Pauline a let- 
ter^ takes up a paper and reads, while Pauline sits on 
a bench reading her letter. 

Skip. Missis! 

Nel. {without looking up). Well? 

Skip. Tim say he meet Marse Pay ton down de road. 

Nel. Indeed? Is he coming here? 

Skip. Yes, ma'am. He came heah wid all his sojers. 
Tim say, he seed 'em loadin' all de meal f'om Brown's 
mill inter some wagons what dey tuck f'om de ole Dutch- 
man what lives on de crick. 

Nel. I suppose, Mr. Pay ton paid for it all? 

Skip. I — I 'spose so, too. 

Nel. {looking up from her paper). Well? 

Skip. Dey's takln' good many hogs, too. 

Nel. Yea, Skip, a great many {reads). 



68 THE rebel's daughter. 

Skip. De fellers what's ketched de hogs done tuck 
none ob our'n. 

Nel. (^Looks at Skip.) 

Skip. Marse Payton tole 'em dey mus'nt take any ob 
de May hogs. 

Nel. That is very kind of Colonel Payton (reads). 

Skip. Missus! 

Nel. Well.? 

Skip. 'Spose Marse Payton gwine pay fur de hogs, 
too? 

Nel. Can't tell, Skip. But you had better tell Tim to 
kill ours, because the next troop may not be so respect- 
ful to the May hogs. 

Skip. Yes ma'am. 

Nel. And bring this to Mr. Leslie (gives Skip the 
mail). 

Skip. Yes ma'am. (Exit Skip. 

Nel. Well, Pauline, what news? 

Paul. Just as I thought, Nellie. Uncle writes, my 
time is up : and since the country hereabouts is too full 
of soldiers for a lady to travel alone, he and cousin 
Woldemar are coming in person to take me home. 

Nel. Really? Too bad! 

Paul. The letter, I see, is a week old, and so I may 
expect them any day. 

Enter Payton. 



Pay. Good morning, ladies ! 
Nel. Good morning, Ralph ! 
Paul. How do you do, Mr. Payton? 



THE rebel's daughter. 69 

Nel. And what brings you here with your regiment? 

Pay. There's something in the wind. How is Leslie? 

Nel. Doing nicely. 

Pay. Good {sees the beans) ! Hello, what is this ? 
Some new game, I suppose? 

Nel. Yes, and a dangerous one. Look at this {shows 
him her finger). 

Pay, {taking her hand). Well, that's a bigger wound 
than I have got, and I am in the business now for three 
years. How is everything? How many niggers have 
you left ? 

Nel. They are all gone but a few: Cressie, who wor- 
ships me, and Skip who — 

Pay. Who can steal more here, than he can honestly 
earn elsewhere. 

Nel. You think so? Skip just told us something 
about stealing, and commended your forbearance towards 
the May hogs. 

Pay. The rascal ! So he has betrayed me to you ? 

Nel. Bat you will forgive him, Ralph? 

Pay. Is Leslie in the house ? 

Nel. Yes, let us go in. 

Pay. By all means. 

Nel. Come, Pauline, break your news to Leslie. I am 
afraid he will not relish it: and it is some satisfaction to 
see, that you likewise are not overcome with joy (takes 
Pauline's arm and turns to go). 

Pay. {aside, looking after them). I don't like this in- 
timacy at all. Arm in arm. Can Victor's sister be 



70 THE rebel's daughter. 

here to heal the breach between him and Nellie? No, 
she will never forgive him. 

(^Exeunt Nellie, Pauline and Patton. 

Enter Auf dem Busch and Woldemar. 

A. d. B. At length are we here. 

Wol. It is the hardest hundred miles I ever traveled. 

A. d. B. Yes: and if Rauhenfels and his army had no^ 
marched happily our way, where would we be now? 

Wol. Yes: and when they arrive here, where will the 
rebels be? 

A. d. B. Happen what will. General RauhenfciS will 
not let May's house come to damage. 

Wol. And I will see to Pauline's safety myself. 

A. d. B. You have right: you ought to have done it 
long ago. Utilize your chance now to declare yourself. 

Wol. Do you think that jackanapes of a lawyer, that 
Leslie May, has made an impression on Pauline ? 

A. d. B. He had much chance thereto, and may be 
did. He knows to go about with women folks, and finds 
quicker out what he wants than you. Besides, he is not 
fallen on the head, and it would not wonder me if he 
becomes a great man. 

Wol. Bah ! Leslie May a great man ? 

A. d. B. Undervalue him not, my son. He will give 
you much trouble if he resolves himself to be your 
competitor. 

Enter Nellie aiid Paulikb. 

Nel. {at the door, looking backward). Come, Pauline. 



THE rebel's daughter. 71 

Mr. Payton and Leslie have evidently some business of 
importance. They will join us, I am sure, as soon as 
they can. {Turning, perceives A. d. B. and Wol.) 
Why, Mr. Auf dem Busch! (Extends both hands to 
A. d. B. who takes them cordially.) And Mr. Woldemar 
Auf dem Busch, too! (^Gives him her hand: then turns 
to A. d. B.) It is indeed a pleasure to welcome you, 
gentlemen, to May Meadows: and yet, I am sorry, too: 
for I know you come to take away Pauline. 

Paul. How do you do, Cousin Woldemar? O Uncle, 
how glad I am to see 3^ou (^embraces him). 

A. d. B. (disengaging himself, and holding Pauline 
at arm's-length). Well, my little stranger: homesickness 
has not bleached the roses on your cheeks. This country 
air does 3^ou well. 

Wol. We have missed you more, Pauline, than you 
seem to have missed us. 

A. d. B. (to Nellie, taking her hand). Ah, Miss 
Nellie, it is not to wonder: because m your society one 
cannot help to forget both friends and home. 

Nel. How very good of you, Mr. Auf dem Busch! 
But your conduct shall decide between your gallantry 
and your candor. Subject yourself to my fascination for 
a week, will you? 

A. d. B. It would make me more glad than anything, 
if I only could, but — 

Nel. I knew it. You men always escape by an if and 
a but. But step into the house, gentlemen, and partake 
of such poor hospitality as we have to offer. 



72 THE rebel's daughter. 

A. d. B. Is young Mr. May still at home? Pauline did 
write he was badly hurt. 

Nel. Yes, indeed ; but he is much better now. 

(^Exeunt Nellie and A. d. B. side by side. 

(Pauline starts to follow with Woldemar. ) 

Wol. Pauline! 

Paul. Well, cousin? 

Wol. May I detain you for just a little while, before 
we go into the house? I have something pleasant to say 
to you. 

Paul. Why, certainly, Cousin Woldemar. But, if it 
be of a pleasing nature, why not let uncle and Miss Nel- 
lie hear it, too? 

Wol. No, no, no! It is to you alone I would speak. 
Can you not guess what it is that I want to say? 

Paul. Why, no, Cousin Woldemar: I haven't the least 
idea. 

Wol. Strange, that you should not think of what con- 
cerns us both so deeply. 

Paul. {Shrinks.) 

Wol. Be not afraid, I am not going to scold you, 
although some people in my place might take umbrage at 
the impropriety of your extended visit at this house. 

Paul. Impropriety? What do you mean? 

Wol. Oh, nothing in particular. Let it go. I was 
about to say — 

Paul. But wherein have I been guilty of impropriety? 
I have a right to know. 

Wol. Well, — I mean, of course, your toleration of the 



THE rebel's daughter. 73 

shameful way in which this hot-headed young rebel has 
been paying court to you. 

PomI. Shameful, Cousin Woldemar? What has he 
done unworthy of a gentleman? 

Wol. Oh, I dare say, he was polite and courteous 
enough, — to you at least. But do you believe it con- 
sistent with maidenly modesty, for one who is to be the 
wife of another, to accept such attention? 

Paul. Was I to be the wife of another? If so, it is 
strange that no one ever told me of it. 

Wol. Oh, well, the matter has not been put in shape 
of a written contract: but you know as well as I, that it 
is my father's wish that I should marry you. Why then 
do you let this fine-spoken gentleman play with you as if 
you belonged to him ? 

Paul. I am glad. Cousin Woldemar, that yow throw all 
the blame on me, for that acquits Mr. May. I doubt 
that he, or any one, could infer from your conduct, that 
I was to be your wife, or that you loved me. Would 
you have deemed it maidenly modesty^ if I had given Mr. 
May to understand that any but a cousinly relation ex- 
isted between you and me? Never, by word or conduct, 
had you hinted such a thing. 

Wol. But I do love you : I love you with all my heart, 
and I came here to tell you so. Forget these rude words 
of mine : you are good and wise, Pauline, and will for- 
give me, will you not? All will be well between us, now, 
that you know I love you. (fiTe tries to seize her handy 
which she withdraws. ) 

Paul. I have nothing to forgive, Cousin Woldemar. 



74 THE rebel's daughter. 

That I should marry you, I knew to be your father's 
wish, but not your wish. You never loved me: you 
do not love me now. If it be your intention to marry 
me, it may be, because you are angry with Mr. May: or, 
because you wish to please your father: or even because 
you wish to please me. That is kind and generous of 
you, Cousin Woldemar : but it is not love. 

Wol. Ah, Pauline, how can you speak so cruelly? 
How can you doubt my passion, when every fibre of my 
heart throbs with intense yearning for your love ? 

Les. {from luithin). Pauline! 

Paul, {starts to go). 

Wol. {startled; defiantly). Stay! Before you go to 
him, speak to me. 

Paul, {in slow ^ measured accents). Then listen. Cousin 
Woldemar. — You do not love me, and I know now, that 
I do not love you, and that I never did love you {starts 
to go). 

Wol. {detaining her). Tell me, when did you learn 
that you can never love me ? 

Paul, {proudly). You have no right to ask me such 
a question. But I will tell you. When I became aware, 
that you did not love me, then I knew that I could not, 
and that I would not accept your hand or your fortune, 
as a beggar accepts an alms. 

Wol. Out upon such hypocrisy! Did ever any per- 
son think of you in connection with a man, and that man 
not I ? Did any person ever think of me in connection 
with a woman, and that woman not you? And now 



THE rebel's daughter. 75 

with bland and childlike innocence you profess igno- 
rance of my affection. 

Paul. When a man means to marry a woman, he 
should speak as well as think. 

Wol. Of all things God ever made, there is nothing 
more casual than a woman. And to find you no better 
than the rest! That our lightwinged butterflies of 
fashion change their affection like their finery, follows 
like an effect from its cause. But that you, Pauline, a 
girl brought up in an atmosphere of decency and deco- 
rum, that you should grow to be a flippant and deceit- 
ful woman reflects poorly on the honest instinct of the 
whole sex. 

Paul. Go on. 

Wol. I did not court you in accordance with the com- 
mon frailty of women. I considered you above such 
nonsense. Had I gushed and written silly love-letters, 
had I sent you bouquets and candy, had I fallen on my 
knees and vowed by all that is holy, that I would drown 
myself unless you married me — perhaps I had been more 
successful. 

Paul. But you did not {turns to go). 

Wol. (ZooA;s ai Pauline^. Disgusting! 

{Exit WOLDEMAR. 

Enter A. d. Busch from the house, meeting Pauline. 

A. d. B. Hello, Pauline, — wnat has Woldemar? 
Paul. Can you forgive me, uncle? 
A. d. B. Forgive you? What? Gave you him the 
mitten? 



76 THE rebel's daughter. 

Paid. Are you very angry with me, uncle Auf dem 
Buscb? 

A. d. B. You feel that I have right to be angry, not? 

Paul. Oh, uncle, I am so sorry, so sorry. 

A. d. B. And you have right to be sorry, not? 

Paul. It makes me so miserable to displease you, dear 
uncle. 

A. d. B. Nonsense! If you are sorry, all will be yet 
right. Woldemar is not a fool, so as he has acted. He 
will try over, and then you speak so you are not sorry. 

Paul. But, oh, dear uncle, I cannot speak so that you 
will not be sorry : for I must say, no, dear uncle, indeed 
I must. 

A. d. B. So, so. You must say, no. Is not Wolde- 
mar good enough for you? 

Paul. Oh, Woldemar is good enough for anybody. 

A. d. B. Why then, love you him not? 

Paul. Because, dear uncle, he did not ask me. 

A. d. B. So an ass! But did he not ask you just now? 
Why said you no, just now? 

Paul. Because — he asked me — too late. 

A. d. B. Whew? That is the time of day, is it? Too 
late. You are then already bespoken? 

Paid. O, no, no, no. Do you mean that lam engaged? 
Oh, no: I am not engaged, dear uncle. 

A. d. B. Not engaged? Why then spoke Woldemar 
too late? You like him, you say he is good enough for 
anybody, you are not engaged — then why spoke Wolde- 
mar too late? 



THE rebel's daughter. 77 

Paul. Because I know now, that I cannot love him. It 
would be a lie if I promised to love him. 

A. d. B. More and more stupidness. Woldemar acted 
an ass. He has been in Germany and learned stupidness. 
But you have not been in Germany : you have been here 
with me : I am proud of your good sense. What is it 
makes you a fool now? 

Paul. I could not do otherwise: indeed, I could not. 

A. d. B. Women and mystery! But why will you not 
marry Woldemar? 

Paul. Because it would be wrong to marry a man whom 
I do not love. 

A. d. B. But why not love Woldemar? 

Paul, (^ecstatically). Oh, uncle, do you not know that 
Love comes not for the asking ? That he laughs at the 
poor, silly heart that would compel him? When Love 
comes, he knocks not at the door: he takes possession, 
and tyranically rules the heart. The senses are in 
league with him: the affections center in him: he glo- 
rifies our very being : he elevates us to the pinnacle of 
bliss. 

A, d. B. Well, Pauline, if you are not engaged, may 
be it is time you ought to be. It is a case of much 
stupidness. 

Enter Leslie, with his arm in a sling. 

A. d. B (^perceiving Leslie). Here comes somebody 
who may be knows too something about love. And so I 
go and console with poor Woldemar. (Exit. 



78 THE kebel's daughter. 

Les. Ah, Miss Pauline, so here you are. Your uncle 
must have closely engaged your attention. 

Paul. You ought not walk, Mr. May : the doctor has 
forbidden all exertion. Sit on this bench. 

Les. Then must you join me, for no gentleman will sit 
in presence of a lady standing (^iliey sit down on the 
bench). There is no end of wonders in the world. You 
can't imagine how I felt, Miss Pauline, when I recovered 
consciousness, and found myself, in bed, at home, and 
at my side what shall I say, — an angel ? 

Paul. If so, you must have been delirious. 

Les. A fairy then : the same that I see now. 

Paul. Delirious still. A fairy is an unsubstantial 
thing, as thin as air — 

Les. And how much do you weigli ? 

Paul. That is the fairy's secret. 

Les. I can guess within a pound. 

Paul. What, guess a fairy's weight? 

Les. My fairy weighs precisely — one hundred and 
twenty pounds. 

Paul. Then I excel your fairy by just twelve pounds. 

Les. Then on your own showing, are you an excellent 
fairy. Look, Miss Pauline, do you know I am half 
afraid, your uncle will suspect this wounded arm of mine a 
mere ruse to keep you here. 

Paul. How should he, Mr. May? Uncle knows, that 
if you had wished to see me, you might have called on us 
at any time within the past three years. In all which 
time your arm was sound and well. 



THE rebel's daughter. 79 

Les. Do you forget that I was in the Confederate serr- 
ice, a soldier in the field? Besides, Victor must haye 
told you what clouds have come between us. Father 
loved him as his own child, and Victor betrayed him. 

Paul. Victor can do no wrong. 

Les. Pardon me, Pauline. I mentioned it merely to 
show that it was not my privilege to call on you : how- 
ever much I have wished to do so. 

Paul. I know not what befell that dreadful day. But, 
whatever loss it brought to you, Victor's loss was still 
greater. If you could see him, you'd not be angry, you 
would pity him. 

Les. Since we cannot alter what is done, Pauline, let 
us banish and forget it. What a strange freak of For- 
tune, to inflict this wound on me, just at the time when 
you were here with Nellie. 

Paul. You were not sorry to see me here ? 

Les. I know no spot on earth where I would rather be 
than where I am. And yet, it is humiliating to present 
myself in this sad plight before my enemy. 

Paul. Am I your enemy ? 

Les. Why, of course, Pauline. You belong to the 
North : your people are in league with the Yankees : and I 
am a deep dyed rebel, — a red hot, fire-eating Southerner. 

Paul. I am not to blame for that. 

Les. {laughing). Why, surely, no. Pauline, you 
speak like a philosopher. Have you been tutored by the 
learned doctor ? 

Paul. He treats me like a baby, strokes my cheek, and 
asks with absent mind what school I go to. 



80 THE rebel's daughter. 

Lea. And yet the oracle finds time to stroke and kiss 
you? 

Paul. But he is a pliilosopher, and father told me that 
I might let him kiss me as often as he pleased. 

Les. Would your father grant me the same permission, 
if I were a philosopher? 

Paul. Yes, perhaps, if — if you were old. 

Les. Pauline, do you know it was this same Rauhenfels 
who first made trouble between your brother and my 
sister ? 

Paul. Ah, he sets great store by Victor and Nellie: 
and knows what you and I and everybody knows, that 
Victor loves your sister. 

Les. And do you know Pauline, I half suspect that 
Nellie is as much in love with Victor, as Victor is with her? 

Paul, {iji rapturous delight). Oh,* do you think so? 

Les. Keep it a secret, Pauline : when last they met he 
conquered her. You see how humble she has grown ; 
her spark of life burns faintly like a nun's. 

l^aul. {rising). Oh, if this were so! 

Les. Come here, Pauline: I cannot speak so loud 
{takes her hand and draws her to his side). But I can 
whisper softly. Suppose, my sister's brotlier loved both 
your brother's sister and your uncle's niece, — which of 
the two — 

Paul. What, love two — {catches herself and drops her 
eyes). 

Les. Two names, Pauline. What do you say? 

Paul. Nothing. 

Les. But you will listen to me ? 



THE rebel's daughter. 81 

Paul. Yes. 

Les. And take me, too? {Kisses her,) 

Paul. O Leslie, you must first get well. 

Les. (elated). But I'm so well in being sick, Pauline, 
that I'll be sick as soon as I am well. My doctor's 
diagnosis is all wrong. He called my wound a scratch, 
but I know better. Men have often died from lesser 
hurts, for lockjaw may set in, or poisoning of the blood. 
Why, I once knew a case where but the skin was 
scratched — 

Paul. Oh, you shall have a dozen other doctors if you 
wish. 

Les. A dozen doctors. Then you may as well buy me 
a shroud and coffin. But, Pauline, don't go to trouble 
for another nurse. I think, you'll answer. 

Enter Nellie. Pauline and Leslie seated on the bench. 

Les. Why, there's sister Nel (To Nellie) : What do 
you say to this? 

Nel. I don't know what to say. 

Les. That's my fix, too. 

Nel. Pauline will tell me (the women go to one side). 

Les. (aside). Will she ? Now by Jove, here's value for 
you. Not a speck of tinsel, but every inch pure gold. 
Those lips and eyes serve not as curtains to conceal a 
soul, for through these crystal windows her spirit shines 
like heaven's honesty. She is Victor's sister. I wonder 
whether she too has a temper so giant-like as his. I'll 
not disturb it until we are married ; but then the sparks 

6 



82 THE rebel's daughter. 

shall fly. A face like hers will look most beautiful when 
flushed with anger. I can hardly wait. {Loud) Good 
nurse, this bandage is not tight enough. (Pauline 
adjusts the bandage). A little more. There, thank you, 
that will do. You must excuse me, sister, but my 
wound requires her constant care. 

Nel. Leslie, you are not well. 

Les. No man is more convinced of that than I. I 
think it must have been a cannon-ball. 'Twill be at 
least three months before I can walk — I mean, three 
months till I can ride again. As luck would have it, 
just my left arm, too. How shall a fellow lead his 
regiment without his bridle arm? The devil take it. 
A leg or two had made no difference, my horse has 
four of those. But just my arm. Had 1 been shot 
right straight into the heart, it could have been no 
worse. 

Nel. No, just about the same: for there's where you 
are hit. 

Enter Auf dem Busch. 

Nel. I have been looking for you, Mr. Auf dem Busch : 
where have you been ? 

A. d. B. I sat on a garden bench. 

Nel. And where is Mr. Woldemar? 

A. d. B. He sits yet on a garden bench. 

Nel. I'll fetch him, for it is about time we were having 
some lunch. 

A. d. B. May be you better not. 

Nel. Why? 



THE rebel's daughter. 83 

A. d. B. Woldemar feels not well. (Nellie looks sig- 
nificantly at Leslie and Pauline.) I have told my driver 
to hitch up. May be Mr. May would like to ride out. 
The weather is beautiful. 

Les. Why, that's capital. But, alas, how shall I drive? 

A. d. B. Take Jacob along. 

Paul. Let me drive, uncle. 

A. d. B, What, ray sorrels, that almost ran away 
with me? 

Paul. I often use them when you are up town. 

A. d. B. Indeed. 

Paul. Come, Nellie, join us. 

Nel. No: you go, and Leslie. Meanwhile I shall 
have your uncle all to m3^self. 

A. d. B. You make me a compliment. Miss May. 

Nel. Don't stay too long, Leslie. 

A. d. B. Be careful. Maybe Jacob drives better. 

Paul. Why, no, uncle. Between us we have three 
hands, and Jacob has but two. 

(^Exeunt Pauline and Leslie. 

Nel. Mr. Auf dem Busch, I want you to tell me 
something about Professor Rauhenfels. 

A. d. B. Rauhenfels? Oh, that is an interesting man, 
and my best friend. Of him I could talk the whole day 
long. I hold him as the wisest man I know, and he is my 
best friend, and I am his best friend. 

Nel. I do not like him: he looks so much like 
Mephistopheles. 

A. d. B. He's a good man. 

Nel. I hope so. (^Exeunt A. d, B. and Nellie. 



84 THE rebel's daughter. 

Enter a Confederate Courier, out of breath. 

Cour. This is the house. There's no time to be lost 
{knocks at the door). 

Enter Ckessie. 

CoxLr. I have a message for Colonel Payton. May I 
see him? 

Gres. Yes, sir: walk in. 

{Exeunt Cressie and Courier. 

Enter Patton, folloioed by the Courier. Patton holds 
the message in his hand. 

Pay. Try to find Mr. May. He is about here some- 
where. Tell him to come. I must see him instantly. 

{Exit Courier. 

Pay {reads) : " An enormous wagon train of the enemy 
is approaching on the Great Bend road. Our pickets 
report it poorly guarded. What shall I do? Hastings, 
commanding." 

Enter Leslie. 

Les. Ralph, you have cheated me out of the happiest 
hour of my life. Lucky for you that Pauline is not the 
girl you are after. 

Pay. When you are through, look at this {gives him 
the dispatch). What shall we do? 

Les. Do ? Corral them like a herd of sheep and drive 
them across the river at Davis' Ford. How many men 
have you ? 



THE rebel's daughter. 85 

Pay. Eight hundred. 

Les. All mounted ? 

Pay. Every one. 

Les. Brave men, too. I fought with them at Ma- 
nassas. By God, Ralph, it is the chance of a lifetime. 

Pay. Suppose the train is followed by a body of troops 
which our pickets did not see? 

Les. If it comes to the worst, set fire to the wagons 
and take the mules. 

Pay. It's a hazardous thing, Leslie. I'll send some 
scouts to investigate. 

Les. There's no time for that. Will you go? 

Pay. I'll go in and bid farewoU to the ladies. 

Xes. Ladies? Hell! (^SeizesVAYTOii's saber and rushes 
off. As he goes, he tears off his bandage and Jlings it on 
the stage. ) 

Pay. The man is mad. (^Exit Payton. 

Enter Nellie and Pauline. 

Nel. I can't imagine where they can be. 

Paul. The soldier said, Colonel Payton must see Leslie 
instantly, and so he left me without a word. 

Nel. I am sure there is some trouble. Let us go up to 
the balcony, Pauline ; from there we can overlook the 
whole valley. 

(Nellie goes out and appears on the balcony — Pauline 
looks about as if for Leslie. ) 

Nel. There's going to be a battle, Pauline. 

Paul. O Nellie, how can you look on such horrors. 

Nel. There's a provision train coming down the road 



86 THE rebel's daughter. 

{counts rapidly). One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, 
eight, nine, ten — hundreds of wagons, Pauline. 

Paul. I am so afraid, Nellie. 

Nel. If our boys let that fat prize escape, I don't know 
them. Thc^^e poor mule drivers do not realize what is 
going to happen in the next five minutes. 

Paul. O Nellie, please come down. 

Nel. There's Pay ton's cavalry on the slope of the hill 
all drawn up in line. — How bright their drawn sabers 
flash in the sunlight. — {in a low voice) like soldiers in a 
picture, so still and silent. — {Shouting without) There 
they go! My, how those drivers lash their mules. — It's 
a hot race, but the odds are against the Yankees this 
time. — Come, come, Pauline, you never saw anything 
like this in your life. — Hurrah ! our boys are upon them ! 

Paul. O Nellie, Nellie, how can you — 

Nel. Now everything is hidden in a cloud of dust. — 
Now I see them again. {Cannon heard) My God, there's 
the enemy's artillery, and cavalry, too, 

Paul. {Spies l^^%^.lJL's> bandage. Shrieks.) 

Nel. What is it? 

Paul. Leslie's bandage {faints). 

Nel. Yes, there he is. I see him. I could recognize 
that white horse of his in a million. — There he goes, 
galloping at the head of his troops, without hat or coat, 
directly upon the approaching foe. — Glorious man, how 
proud I am to be your sister. — There they meet, hand 
to hand. O God! — Now the dust hides all. (During 
Nellie's Prayer the din of battle and trumpet signals are 
heard.) O Heavenly Father, that with unfaltering 



THE rebel's daughter. 87 

justice metes to man defeat or victory, let glory crown 
my injured South. Let not her gallant sons bleed need- 
lessly, for since time's course began man never battled 
in a holier cause. — I can see nothing, nothing. 

{After a pause Nellie descends. The reflection of a 
fire is seen. ) 

Nel. (below). L^ok Pauline, they have set the 
wagons on fire. — I fear, I fear — 

Enter a soldier. 

Nel. What news? {Soldier hands Nellie a message. 
Nellie reads.) " We are overwhelmed by numbers. 
Our only safety is flight. Good bye! Kiss Pauline. 
Leslie." 

( The women embrace. As the curtain falls the glare of 
the fire grows brighter. ) 



88 THE rebel's daughter. 



ACT V. 



SCENE. — Mat's house in Brookfield. 

Enter Nellie, veiled, and Payton in civilian clothes. 

Fay. For God's sake, Nellie, quick. The Yankees 
will be here in less than an hour. 

Nel. {raising her veil). Shall I abandon house and 
home ? 

Pay. Had you done that last fall when we made our 
dash on the enemy's wagon train, you would not now be 
in danger. 

Nel. Poor Leslie : I have not seen him since. 

Pay. He is well enough. It is you I came to save. 

Nel. Did I preserve our homestead then, that I might 
now leave it to the mercy of our enemies? 

Pay. But here you are yourself at their mercy. These 
cut-throats consider neither age nor sex. 

Nel. Father and Leslie are in the field. Who will 
protect our home, if like a coward 1 leave it in the 
lurch? I'll stay. 

Pay. For Heaven's sake, dear Nellie, I have left my 
regiment, I have set my honor on the hazard to save 
you. Come, fly with me. 



THE rebel's daughter. 89 

Nel. No, Ralph, I shall remain. Instead of persuad- 
ing me to fly, return to your regiment and persuade 
your enemies to fly. I must see to the house. Fare- 
well. (^Exit Nellie. 

Pay. Hell and damnation! Have I come here for 
nothing? Have I for nothing left my regiment? For 
nothing set my honor on the hazard? And Rauhenfels 
with twenty thousand men comes quick upon us. And 
Victor comes with him. And Nellie will not fly. If she 
meet Victor, who knows what may happen. (^Military 
music in the distance.^ Hark, there they are. Nellie, 
farewell! Now Payton, save yourself. (Payton ^wr/is 
to go. On opening a door he is met by a federal cor- 
poral with a squad of soldiers.) 

Cor. Your weapon. Halt. If you resist, you are a 
dead man. 

Pay. O cursed luck! The dog has caught me, caught 
me like a rat. {Soldiers take Payton' s iceapons and 
lead him off. ) ' 

Enter Victor in uniform of a lieutenant. 

Vic. How all respects of peace turn topsy turvy in the 
chance of war. Else I would shrink to step with spurs 
and boots across a temple's threshold. (^Uncovers his 
head.) Hallowed place, familiar as the songs my mother 
sang ; methinks your fixed and dumb inhabitants have 
each a tongue, that eloquently chides this rash intrusion. 
Peace, I'll go again. My soldier hands, rude and un- 
mannerly, shall think you each a saint and touch you 
not. — Near yonder window I have sat a hundred times 



90 THE rebel's daughter. 

in seeming study over some ponderous book, while she, 
bright angel, flitted here and there, unconscious of her 
still idolater, who worshipped, and with seeing eyes, 
unseen, cast furtive glances and was satisfied. {Enter 
Rauhenfels in the uniform -of a General, U7iseen by 
Victor. ) There hangs a landscape that I helped her draw ; 
and as we traced the lines that signify a mill-race tumbling 
over his busy wheel, she took the pencil from me and 
exclaimed, " O Victor, what a lazy brook is that, I'll 
make it run much faster." 

Mau. Come, that's enough, monsieur melancholy. Do 
not forget, that you are a soldier. You have practiced 
warfare with unflinching hands these four years. Have 
you become so weary of the bloody business, that now 
you run to water? Come, my boy: we have good 
news this morning. Everywhere, our arms are flushed 
with victory. Here is quite a batch of news 
{throws a bundle of papers on a table). So this is 
where your good friend, Colonel May, lived in halcyon 
days. I am not a total stranger in these parts, for 
here it was where some six months ago, that dare-devil, 
Leslie May, set fire to my wagons. And the hotspur 
escaped us, too. Of the six men I sent on his trail, but 
two came back, and they without him. — A handsome 
house: I shall make my headquarters here. " Up with 
my tent, as hunchbacked Dicky said, " here will I lie 
to-night." 

Vic. How ill your humor becomes the tragedy whose 
scenes were cast where we now stand. 

Eau. Dull gosling ! Have you lived with me so long, 



THE rebel's daughter. 9l 

and are still so stupid? Shall a bridegroom weep, 
because every tick of the clock counts a funeral ? Men 
never laugh until other men shed tears, and nature keeps 
this law so rigidly, that were it not for death no man 
would live. Why, this truth is old as Adam. — I have 
here another matter. 

Vic. Wheresoe'er she be, may angels guard her with 
protecting wing. 

JRau. {commanding). Lieutenant, sit. (Victor seats 
himself.) My soldiers have arrested a man by name of 
Payton. 

Vic. What, Ralph Payton, our old acquaintance? 

Mau, I have not seen him, but I think it is he. The 
sergeant whose report 1 have before me, says his arrest 
was made on mere suspicion, and nothing guilty found. 

Vic. Then why detain him ? He is too well known to 
play the spy here in Brookfield. 

Eau. Stop, not so fast. The sublest knavery is often 
performed in guise of boldest front. Do you think he 
stands close enough to Colonel May, or rather. General 
May is the title we owe him now, I believe, that he 
might be intrusted with dispatches from or to the gCD- 
eral's friends? 

Vic. I think so, yes. 

Bau. I'll summon him. Holla! 

Enter Guards. 

Bring me a prisoner by the name of Payton. 

{Exeunt Guards. 



92 THE rebel's daughter. 

Vic. With your permission, let me be excused. I 
would not like to meet Mr. Payton. 

Rau. So. Yes, yes. I remember. Well, you may 
go. But stay where you can be found, for I may need 
you. 

Vic. Very well. {Exit Victor. 

Rau. Now we shall see how Mr. Payton stands fire. 
If he gives proof to be a man of mettle, I will not 
obstruct him : but no coward shall outface my Victor 
{reads from a report). " There came with him a woman 
closely veiled, above the average height, erect and 
slender, and from her gait we judge that she is young.'* 
That description applies to the lady's octoroon, as well 
as to the lady. They are as like as twin peas. But no 
matter, either will fetch. 

Enter guards loith Payton. 

Sir, you may sit. (Payton scornfully retains his feet.) 

Rau. {to the guards). Leave us. {Exeunt Guards. 
Your name is Payton, I believe. 

Pay. Yes, sir ; an unoffending citizen, arrested — 

Rau. Hold. Your office is to answer, not to make 
comment. What you are, we know, in part at least, a 
rebel: what you are besides, we shall soon discover. 
, We learn, that you are sent with secret messages to Gen- 
eral May. 

Pay. Your soldiers found them on me, I suppose? 

Rau {rises angrily). No, sir; if we had found the 
documents, we'd switch you to the gallows, Mr. Payton. 

Pay. The gallows! 



THE rebel's daughter. ^ 93 

Rau. Shake not. What should be the fear? Your 
person bore no guilty evidence. 

Pay. Then set me free. 

Rau. We are not quite through yet (^reads), 
" There came with him a woman closely veiled ; above 
the average height, erect and slender, and from her gait 
we judge that she is young.** Where is this lady.? 

Pay. Sir, this is too much. Grant, that a lady 
traveled in my care, grant likewise, that the lady is a 
rebel, and grant besides, she bears the messages which 
you supposed I carried, I'd be a cur that every man 
should kick, if I betrayed her name or place of safety. 

Rau. That's a matter of sheer sentiment and not to 
the point. Where is the lady? 

Pay. You have no right to make me answer that. 

Rau. My rights are mine. For you it is ail-sufficient 
that I have put the question. 

Pay. Then in return, let it for you be likewise all-suffi- 
cient, that I cannot remember. 

Rau. That is bad. For I must know, and you must 
tell me. Perhaps, I can refresh your memory: and to 
that end I will give you time to find her: ten minutes, by 
the watch. Your guards will help you to make the search. 
I'll leave you for the present {starts to go and stops at the 
door). Be sure you find her: when the time is up I shall 
return, and unless you bring her to me, and in her pres- 
ence tell me, this is she, off you swing. Good evening. 

{Exit Rauhenfels. 



94 THE rebel's daughter. 



Enter Guards. 



Pay. {aside). I am caught between two millstones ; all 
my choice lies cramped between death and shame. Is there 
no other way? If I persist in ignorance he will hang me. 
On the other hand, if I deliver Nellie, will he dare to 
injure her? No. For unless he finds proof of her guilt, 
and that he cannot, it were atrocity most damnable to 
crook one hair of hers. She is a woman, and even a 
German General will not dare, here in America, to lay 
his hand upon a helpless woman that is innocent. Which- 
ever way I look upon the matter, the danger is mine, for 
Nellie there is none. And therefore I will not indulge 
the foolish boast to risk my life for nothing. 

Enter Nellie and Cressie. 

Nel. {to Patton). Is it true, as Cressie reports, that 
soldiers guard our house? That General Rauhenfels has 
made his headquarters here? That you are a prisoner 
and that I am looked on with suspicion ? What is the mat- 
ter? {To one of the guards) : Sir, what is your business 
here? 

Chia. A soldier, madam, I — 

Nel. Quit the house. 

Gua. I stand here on command. 

Nel. On whose command? Begone. I am mistress 
here. 

Qua. 1 must not, lady. 

Nel. Payton, put him out. Shall men in arms stand 



THE rebel's daughter. 96 

at my father's door, and point their bayonets at me? 
Saucy fellow, make room, and let me pass. 

Gua, Here is no passage. 

Pay. Storm not so, Nellie : this discourtesy is none of 
his. 

Net. (io the guard) : Call your commander, I would 
speak to him. 

Cres. Dear mistress, do not anger them, or they will 
do you harm. 

Pay. Be sensible: such is the course of war; you can- 
not change it. My time is precious, come and listen to 
me. 

Nel. What, more offense? Kill, and be done with it. 

Pay. Listen, I pray, my life is in your hands. 

Nel. Then you shall live. Say on. 

Pay. We both were seen entering this house. You 
were not recognized, but I have been made a prisoner 
and am commanded on pain of death to deliver you to the 
commanding general, for he thinks that we are sent with 
secret messages to General May. 

Nel. And am I now delivered ? 

Pay. For you there is no particle of danger, for you 
can swear that you are innocent. 

Nel. And he will believe me? 

Pay. Whether he does or not, it makes no difference. 
Until he finds the proof, you are not guilty. 

Nel. But, I am delivered? 

Pay. Merely to humor him. Were he the devil, he 
would not dare to lay his hand on you until your offense 
is proven. 



96 THE rebel's daughter. 

Nel. But — I am — delivered. 

Enter Rauhenfels ; remains in the rear. 

Pay. (^observing Rauhenfels) Yes. 

Nel. Come, Cressie, you are now all that is left me. 
Ah, Victor, Victor, the more I see of men, the more I 
recognize your lofty spirit. Honor was to you life's ele- 
ment, and not a stock in trade to sell for uses. 

Gres. Mistress, I am sure, if Mr. Waldhorst were in 
this man's place, he would not so betray you. 

Nel. Ah, good girl, you too, perhaps, may some day 
be apprised that all men are not Victors. Do not think 
my danger grieves me. I have lost so much, that like a 
beggar I miiy laugh at thieves. Come, Cressie, where is 
3'our courage? 

Ran. Prisoner, your time is up. Which of the women 
here is your accomplice? 

Nel. I, if any, sir. 

Rau. Answer my question, prisoner. 

Nel. It is answered. 

Rau. Nay, and you mean to have some sport with me, 
3'ou will find the laughter on the other side. 

Pay. May God in Heaven strike me instant dead, if 
she be guilty. 

Rau. That was not my question. 

Cres. {aside). The General does not appear to know 
whether it was she or 1. If I am guilty, she is innocent. 

(^Exit Cressie. 

Nel. Spare him the answer, sir. It was I who came 
to Brookfield in your prisoner's company. 



THE rebel's daughter. 97 

Ran. He shall corroborate. Is that the truth ? Speak, 
or the gibbet. 

Pay. Yes, it is the truth. But God in Heaven — 

Rau. Silence. Convey him, guards, beyond our outer 
lines, and let him run. Mr. Fayton ! 

Pay. Sir? 

Rau. I would like to be the owner of a life, that is 
worth as much as you are paying for yours. 

{Exeunt guards with Payton. 

NeL Let me know what accusations have been raised 
against me, that I may prove them false. 

Rau. I hope you will, and be assured that every doubt 
we shall construe in your favor. — General May, I am 
right glad there are not twenty such to lead the rebel 
armies, is your father. 

Nel. If that is an accusation, I confess that I. am 
guilty. And to help you fix identity more certain, I'll in- 
form you, that I am kin to yet another May, one Leslie 
May, whose exploits in the South have made him worthy 
of his parentage, and he, sir, is my brother. 

Rau. That we know, and that is one more suspicion. — 
If you have in your possession any information to or 
from either of these rebel chieftains, your father or your 
brother, I demand, in duty bound, instant delivery. 

Nel. I cannot, sir. I have no messages. 

Enter Cressie, burning papers as she enters. 

Rau. Look to the woman, there (guards seize Cres- 
sie). 



98 THE rebel's daughter. 

Cres. {struggling). Too late, too late! Burn, tire, 
burn. These are the messages, and I have burned them. 

Ran. Let me see tlie ashes. (Rauhenfels inspects 
the ashes and sends out a messenger). 

Nel. How stupid, Cressie, to accuse yourself of an 
offense that is not. Your self-sacrifice will injure more 
than help me. {To Rauhenfkls): Sir, your pardon, but 
I would speak a word. 

Rau. I am listening. 

NeL This girl is my maid, so foolish fond of me, 
that in her fear, she seized upon this most unhappy 
means, to shift the guilt and save her mistress. Those 
ashy remnants were no messages. {Messenger returns 
loith a book lohich he gives to Rauhhnfels. ) 

Eau. No, but three pages from a valued book which I 
]eft on a table in the adjoining room. Come here, girl. 
(Cressie approaches^ hanging her head.) Such vandalism 
cannot be dismissed without punishment. And you will 
therefore, from month to month, bring me one-tenth 
of your wages, until the sum buys such another book. 
Now stand aside. Once more to what is in hand. 
Miss May, continue. If, as you declare, you bear 
neither letters nor dispatches, explain, as best you 
can, why my suspicion is not well founded. 

Nel. Sir, it is well founded. And being who I am, 
1 cannot see, how anything I spoke in my behalf could 
help to clear me. What right have I to ask that you 
consider what I say to be the truth? Yes, I'll be free to 
say, that if I had some news, some information of benefit 



THE rebel's daughter. 99 

to my father or bis son, or to our cause, I would 
not hesitate to lie and steal to see it safe delivered. 

Man. I like your honesty. Such candor is of service 
in a world where those who lie most are most prone 
to sa}^ I swear it, on my honor — well, continue. 

Nel. If I could be of service to my father, you would 
not find me idling here in Brookfield. But since, alas, 
I am unable to be of use to him, I will clear myself 
of what I wish far more I had been guilty. This is my 
home, I live here with ray mother, and have no wish 
to leave it. If you choose to set a watch on me, I 
am content, that all my correspondence shall be done 
under your supervision. 

Mau. Well and good. I will send you my Lieutenant, 
a most considerate man, whose aim will be to please 
you to the very verge of duty, though not an inch 
beyond. Miss May, remain: all others quit the room. 

Nel. Let Cressie stay with me. 

Hau. But no more pyrotechnics. 

(^Exeunt all hut Nellie and Cressie. 

Cres. Miss Nellie, this gruff man is not so savage as he 
seems. 

Nel. I do not fear him, Cressie: still I have good 
cause to hate him. This is Rauhenfels, my evil spirit, 
and the cause of all our misery. 

Ores. But, my dear mistress, it is evident he bears 
no hatred now ; for whenever he turned to speak to you, 
his voice grew gentle. Did you not observe it ? 

Nel. No, Cressie. 

Ores. But it is true. Perhaps he feels remorse for 

LofC. 



100 THE rebel's daughter. 

his ill deeds, and now intends to make atonement by 
some restoration. 

Nel. How child? 

Cren, You will not be angr}' if I tell you all that 1 
know? Not by mere knowledge, mistress, but what my 
soul divines? 

Nel. In prophecy? 

Cres. (^mysteriously). Rauhenfels is a magician, dear 
mistress, and Mr. Waldhorst fell a prey to his black art. 
Else how could Mr. Waldhorst have changed so quickly ? 
When our staunchest friend becomes overnight our 
enemy, it is sorcery, and not in natural order. 

Nel. Cressie, talk not so foolishly, or 1 must think 
your blind old granny speaks. 

Ores. Oh, listen. Miss Nellie; it was she who told me 
that these evil men by magic can undo what they have 
done. 

Nel. And so you think, that Rauhenfels could, if he 
would, bring Victor back to me? 

Cres. Yes, and what is more he will. 

Nel. Come, hold your tongue, and let me speak to 
you. Your willingness to bear my burden in adversity, 
induces me to speak to you of that which hitberto no 
breath gave utterance. It is not Rauhenfels, as fondly 
you would have me think it was, that cost me Victor. 
She who bears the loss is she who bears the blame. I 
was ambitious. My father, then a member of the House, 
looked to the Senate and to bring him there, I recked not 
what I did. As you remember, Victor was near to us, 
and in my zeal to bind him firmly to my father, I played 



THE rebel's daughter. 101 

.upon the strings of bis affection, and so misled him. For 
he loved me, Cressie, with that fine passion whose own 
purity deems all else pure. It was not much I said, and 
yet when he rehearsed the part I played, I blushed at my 
corruption. Cressie, Cressie, learn from your mistress 
what it is to lose a true man's love — there lives not one 
in thousand. If Providence is kind to you, perhaps, 
you too some day will be as rich as I was. Until then, 
Cressie, let not vanity employ your beauty for entangling 
men. If nature used you kindly, do not stale her dear 
perfections to the eyes of the world, but guard them 
chastely until you find a man, who makes you feel there 
are no other men. On him let fall the proofs of your 
affection, unstinted, like a copious summer cloud lets 
fall its blessed flood. 

Enter Victor. 

Cres. (^seeing Victor, starts to her feeC). Look, Miss 
Nellie, look. 

l^el. Victor ! (Nellie and N\Q,TO\\^gaze on each other 
iixedly.) Stand not so dumb, inanimate. Speak, speak 
to me. Bless me or curse me, Victor, but speak ! 

Vic. O Nellie, Nellie! {They fall into each other's 
arms.) {Exit Cressie. 

Vic. {after a pause). This is you. This arm, this 
hand, these lips I kiss are yours. All, all is you. 

Nel. O Victor, 1 have sinned so much, so much. 

Vic. No, I was but a fool. 

Nel. Nay, do not flatter me. Speak as you think; 
tell me the truth. I'll bear no middle course. For you 



102 THE rebel's daughter. 

must either hate me past all hope, as I deserve, or love 
me as of old. 

Vic. I have no life, but what you give me. Gazing on 
your face, as I do now, I trace familiar lines, lines which 
the exile of my desert years have graven on ray heart. 
There is not a feature in all this bright perfection of 
yourself, but my imagination has rehearsed it a hundred 
thousand times. 

Nel. Can you forget all that I was, and love me as I 
am? 

Vic. Whatever you are is you: what you are not, is 
nothing. 

Enter Rauhenfels, 

Rau. {(iside). Now by Saint Cupid's bow, this officer 
of mine shall be promoted. — Lieutenant Waldhorst! 

Vic. {confused). Pardon. By your leave this is Miss 
May. 

Jiau. I have had the pleasure. 

Vic. What? And how is this? 

Itaic. We have had an interview without an introduc- 
tion. 

Nel. Yes, indeed. And such it was, that soft society 
would blush at it. 

Eau. And to my mind, I came off second best. 

Ktl. Do you hear that, Victor? Be you on your 
guard: my woman's tongue outmatched the general 
even. 

Mau. And yet we managed well. 

Nel. Oh, excellent. A soldier's etiquette cuts off the 



THE rebel's daughter. 103 

roundabouts of full-dressed men, and talks straight 
home. 

(^Shouting tvUhout. Enter a messenger running with 
dispatches for Rauhenfels.) 

Vic. What may this shouting mean ? 

Rau. It means that spurs and boots are out of fashion ; 
that silken hose and shoes of patent leather, shall make 
more conquests than the guns of war. 

Vic. Oh, jest not, tell me is the struggle done? 

Mau. Done, Victor, finished. Ring the curtain down : 
for now we shift into the scenes of peace. Nor shall I 
escape the metamorphosis : my uniform shall be a dress- 
ing gown, my sword a pipe, and musty books shall be my 
charts of war. 

Enter messenger with dispatches for Rauhenfels. 

Enter Cressie. 

Cres. O mistress. Master Leslie has come home, and he 
is married, and his wife is here, and Master Leslie's father : 
no, no, not his father, but his wife's father, that big jolly 
man, — oh, what's his name, — don't make me stop to 
think, — you know who it is, and — 

Eater Leslie and Pauline. Leslie greets Nellie, 
Victor greets Pauline. Then Pauline embraces 
Nellie. 

Les. (approaching Victor). Let us have peace. 
Vic. Forever and forever. {They embrace.) 
Nel. (^to Pauline). And so you are married? 
Paul. Yes. 



104 THE rebel's daughter. 

Nel. My brother's wife. How strange that sounds. 

Paul. I'll call you sister now. Are you not married 
yet? 

Nel. No. 

Paul. And why not? 

Nel. Because nobody wants me. 

Paul. Nellie, Nellie, I am not so simple as I used to 
be. There is Victor: I see it in bis face, that both of 
3^ou may be congratulated. 

Nel. Hush, hush, you little windmill. Would you 
make nie the butt and laughing steels of all these peo- 
ple? Please hold your tongue, for Victor has not }et 
pro|)osed to me. 

Paul. That is mere forgetfulness. Don't mind it, 
sister Nellie, for you see, he is a pupil of Rauhenfels, 
and Raulienfels is a philosopher, and these philosophers 
know everything except what is proper and conventional. 

(Victor and Leslie join Nellie and Pauline.) 

Enter Auf dem Busch and Mrs. May. 

Ran. Holla, friend Auf dem Busch, I am glad to see 
you. 

A. d. B. And so am I. How goes it, Mr. Meddler? 

Mrs. M. Whoever would have thought that this would 
be the end. 

Ran. This, madam, is the happiest of all ends. 

A. d. B. Of course, of course, he did it all himself. 

Enter a messenger with dispatches for Rauhenfels. 
Rau. And still they come. Rejoice, our wars are done. 



THE rebel's daughter. 105 

And yet I cannot help to think how often 
Will men with tongues refight what has been done. 
Take either side, but fix it in your soul, 
The part cannot be greater than the whole. 

Les. And so the chance of war has gone against us : 
our cause is lost. 

Paul. No, Leslie, you have won. For we have won, 
and since you are mine, have you not likewise won? 

Les. Why, so I have. The rarest jewel in all Yankee- 
land I captured from the North. Pauline is mine. 

Nel. O Victor, now my bright star of the South 
Pales in the rays of your victorious sun. 
The mightier North o'erwhelmed the weaker South, 
And fortune makes him master over all. 

Vic. No, Nellie, no, your stars shall not decline: 
In purer lustre you will see them shine: 
For what to you now seems like sad defeat 
Welds North and South into one land complete. 

Nel. May God grant respite to my wearied South, 
And give us faith in those that conquered us, 
As I have faith and confidence in him, 
Who conquered me, my Victor. 

END. 



INTO THE OPEN 

A DRAMA IN 4 ACTS. 



CHARACTERS. 



John Wimpleton, President of the Wimpletoyi Grocer Go. 
Clement, his son. 
Mildred, his daughter. 

Bayard McGregor, b^tsiyiess associate of John Wim- 
pleton. 
William Lowe, aporter at the Wimpleton Grocer Co. 
Mart Lowe, Jiis wife. 

Jeannette, ) .7 . , J. 

> their daughters. 
Susan, ) 

Maggie and Hinie, age 12 and 8, children of William 

ayid Mary. 
P. Henry Monmouth, a traveliyig salesman. 
Jackson Formerly, a rustic merchant. 
Pete Striker, a young mechanic. 

Police Officer: Messenger: Bookkeepers: Office 
Boy: Servants. 



SCENE: A Large Western City. 

TIME: Present. 

Acts 1 and 8. — William Lowe's House, 
Act 2. — Office of Wimpleton Grocer Co. 
Act 4. — John Wimpleton' s House. 

An interval of 6 months between acts 2 and 3. 



ACT I. 



SCENE: — A room in William Lowe's house, which 
serves as kitchen, dining room and living room. poorly 
furnished. a cook-stove l. b. a bare kitchen 
table l. f. a worn sofa r. f. 

Mrs. Lowe. 

Mrs. L. {o7i her knees scrubbing the floor; dock 
strikes). Seven! Well, if them girls don't show up 
pretty soon, there'll be a high old time when the old 
man comes. He's had pancakes for supper on Fridays 
for twenty years ; but this here floor is going to be 
scrubbed, pancakes or no pancakes {scrubs energet- 
ically). 

Enter Pete and Susan with a large bundle B. C. 

Mrs. L. You know what time it is? 

Sus. Time for supper. 

Pete. Hello, Mrs. Lowe ! Still at work .? You women 
ought to organize, and then you could quit at five 
o'clock. 

Mrs. L. And who'd scrub the kitchen? 

Pete. There's lots of women looking for a job. 



112 INTO THE OPEN. 

Mrs. L. Yes, and I'll go hire one quick enough, if 
you give me the money. Here I've been waiting since 
half past six for somebody to come home and fix supper, 
with half a dozen hungry kids hollering for something 
to eat. 

S^is. What did you give 'em? 

Mrs. L. Gave 'em some bread and sausage and sent 
'em to bed. Sue, get a move on yourself and fix 
supper: the old man'U come any minute. 

Sus. Not much! It's Jennie's turn to-night. She 
can turn up her nose at me on the outside, but here 
in the house, I am just as good as she. 

Mrs. L. That's all right, Sue, but if you did as much 
work for me as Jennie, it would be heap easier for me. 
While you go gallivanting with your fellers, Jennie sits 
up at night and patches the children's clothes. Besides, 
she gives me fifteen dollars a month, and you only give 
me ten. 

Sus. Yes, but how does she get it? Flirting with a 
cigarette dude, and working him for a job in his father's 
office. Stemming tobacco at five dollars a week ain't 
so high-toned, but it's a good deal more respectable. 

I'ete. Bully for you. Sue! You're a spunky girl. 
That's just the way I feel about it. Where Sue and I 
work, we lay down the law to the bosses. It's just so 
many hours, and just so much pay, or we tie up the 
factory. 

Mrs. L. You didn't do much tying up last summer, 
when you struck in the planing mill. 

Pete. That's because a lot of dirty scabs took our 



INTO THE OPEN. 113 

place. But we did a good [many of *em up all the 
same. 

Sus. I give you all the money I earn except ten dollars 
a month, while Jennie keeps twice as much on her own 
showing. Besides, I don't believe her when she says 
she gets only forty dollars a month. 

Pete. A good looking stenographer can make seventy- 
five dollars a month, if she keeps her eye peeled for the 
right kind of a place. 

Sus. And Jennie is just slick enough to work it for all 
there's in it {looks out of the ivindoiv). There she 
comes now in Clem Wimpleton's buggy. That's right, 
drop her off at the corner, Mr. Dude. It wouldn't be 
nice to stop at this shanty with your high-toned rig. 
Now watch her lie when she comes in. Of course, she 
came so late, because she had to walk all the way. 

Enter Jeannette neatly drpssed in contrast to the others, 

B. O. 

Jeayi. {takes of her gloves, hat and wrap, lohich she 
hangs on a nail). Good evening! Good evening Pete. 

Pete. Good evening! Hello! What has the People's 
Friend got to say? {Picks up a paper ayid sits on the 
sofa. 

Mrs. L. You know what time it is ? 

Jean. Yes, it's late, I know. But there was much to 
do: Mr. McGregor kept me taking letters long after six. 

Sus. {loith a knowing glance.) Did you ride home in 
the cars? 

8 



114 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean. No, Mr. Wimpleton was good enough to drive 
me home. 

Sus. To the corner, you mean. 

Jean. Yes, 1 know what you mean (puts on an apron 
and tucks up her sleeves to prepare supper). Is Susan 
going to remain at bome to night, mother? 

Sus. No, ma'am. 

Mrs. L. What do you want to know that for? 

Jean, Because I accepted Mr. Wimpleton's invitation 
to an entertainment tliis evening. But, no matter; he'll 
not come before nine, and I can be ready by that time, 
I think. Where's the lire shovel? 

Mrs. L. Hinie broke it on the dog. 

Sus. Pete and me are going out, too. And you bet, it's 
none of them affairs, where people's got to eat standing 
up, wiihaplate in one hand and a glass in the other. 
And we don't have to lie when we go home and say, we 
had just a lovely' lime. 

Jean. ( Takes a piece of paper to protect herjingers^ and 
places some pieces of coal on the fire. ) 

Sus. Oh, my! 

Mrs. L. What's the matter? 

Sus. She's afraid of hurting the coal. 

Mrs. L. (throivs down her scrub brush and shoves Jean. 
aside). Get out my way! It'll be time for breakfast, 
before you'll get supper ready at that rate (energeti- 
cally picks up the coal scuttle, puts on coal, and noisily 
sets a pan ivith some bacon on the stove). 

Jean. Please let me make the pancakes, mother. 

Mrs. L. No time for pancakes to-night. 



INTO THE OPEN. 115 

Jean. It will take but a few minutes. 

Mrs. L. Don't bother me! Set the table. 

Jean. (^Shrugs her shoulders and obeys. Is occupied 
setting the table xmtil William enters,) 

JSus. Wonder what dad '11 do, when he gets no pan- 
cakes to-night {washes her hands in the scrub pail). 
Say Pete, these suds takes the dirt off good. If you'll 
step over this way, I'll wash your face so clean, your 
own mother won't know you. 

Fete. Keep off, or I'll smack you. 

Sus. You will, will you? {Throws suds i7i his face.) 

Pete, {seizes Susan and kisses her). Thanks for 
your invite {resumes his seat and reads). 

Jean. {Looks at Susat!^ ivith an expressio7i of disgust.) 

jSus. He didn't kiss you, did he? 

Jean. No. 

Mrs. Ij. Stop your monkeying, Sue. 

Sus. {dries her hands on her dress). The other 
night, when some of the feilers was around, Pete grabbed 
her from behind, and tried to kiss her. Didn't you, 
Pete? 

Fete. Yap. 

Sus. But you didn't, did you? 

Fete. Nop. 

Sus. Why didn't you? You had a good grip on her. 

Fete. Guess, she wouldn't let me 'cause I was chew- 
ing. 

Sus. Strikes me, a good many mouths what chaws ter- 
baccer is cleaner than some what smokes cigarettes. 

Fete. Just listen to this {reads): "The president of 



116 INTO THE OPEN. 

the Sugar Trust has given orders to close down all the 
sugar works in New York and Brooklyn, throwing 
twenty thousand working men out into the street to 
starve." {Theatrically and ivith gestures.) That's the 
way monopoly sets its iron heel on the breast of the peo- 
ple. But, I tell you, a day of reckoning will come, and 
then the down-trodden slaves of our boasted land of 
liberty — 

Sus. {interrupting seriously). Will rise in their de- 
spair and throttle the lives out of these blood sucking 
tyrants ! 

Mrs. L. Are you making a speech, Pete? 

Jean, {smiling). What paper is that? 

l*ete. The People's Friend ; the only honest paper in 
the city. 

Sus. {to Jean). What are you laughing at? 

Jean. At Pete, and his People's Friend. 

Siis. Well, if you're so smart, why has one man got 
the right to starve twenty thousand? 

Jean. He hasn't. 

Pete. Then why has this bloated monopolist got the 
right to throw out twenty thousand men? 

Jean. You mean, why the refineries have stopped 
making sugar? 

Pete. Yes. 

Jean. Simply because the people don't eat more sugar. 
It's your fault, Pete, as much as anybody's. 

Pete, {disgusted). What are^you giving us? 

Jean. Pete Striker, here's the chance of your life. 
You claim to be something of an organiz=^r, do you not? 



INTO THE OPEN. 117 

Pete. Ask some of the blokes in the first ward what 
got dumped at the primaries. 

Jean, Good. Now you organize the people of the 
United States to use double the quantity of sugar in 
their cakes and coffee, and I'll warrant you, the sugar 
refineries will soon be running day and night. It's a 
small matter, too, fifty cents a head per annum will do 
the whole business. 

SiLS. Did you have to go to the high school four years 
to learn that, or did you hear it from your friend, 
Clem Wimpleton on the way home? 

Pete. I guess she got that from Mr. McGregor, who's 
one of the biggest monopolists in the city. 

Jean. He subscribed ten thousand dollars to the new 
library. 

Pete. How did he get the ten thousand ? These fellers 
rob the people of a million, and then give them a 
thousand back again for charity. 

Sus, I can't see, why this Mr. McGregor wants to 
be so stuck on himself, anyway. If he's old man Wim- 
pleton's partner, why don't he get his name on the sign? 

Jean. He is still young and very modest. 

Mrs. L. Let me tell you, because you're working for 
a rich concern, it's no sign you're rich yourself. 

Sus. (^approaching Jean). And let me tell you, that 
sitting beside a fast young man in his private office, 
is going to make a poor girl still poorer. 

Jean. And let me tell you^ that a stupid young woman 
who runs away from school to work in a tobacco factory, 
who spends her Saturday nights and Sundays at public 
dance halls with the scum — 



118 INTO THE OPEN. 

Sus. Who's a bum? 

Fete. That's me. 

Sus. Do you call me a bad girl? 

Jean. You're a stupid girl. 

Sus. I do it open and above board, and you do it 
on the sly, that's the difference. 

Mrs. L. Quit your fussing, or I'll give you both a 
licking, if ytai are of age. 

Enter Wii-liam somewhat intoxicated B. C. 

Wil. Sui)[>ei" done? (^l^atsJiis 2)ipe on tlie table and sits 
down.) 

Pete, (^to Sus.) I'll be back for you in ten minutes. 
Get those duds on (piick, Sue. It's going to be a swell 
ball. I worked the brewery for three kegs. Some of 
the boys are down at Jake's; I am going over to get a 
little lunch, and be right back. 

Sus. All right, Pete. 

J*ete. Put her on decollete and sleeveless. 

Sus. I can stand it, can't I, Pete? 

Pete. You bet your life you can. 

{Exit Pete B. C. 

Mrs. L. {places some chairs at the table). Come to 
supper, Sue. 

Sus. 1 don't want none. Pete's going to call for me 
in ten minutes, and I've got to dress. 

Mrs. L, Don't wake up the kids. 

Sus. They won't wake up, if they had enough to eat. 

{Exit Sus. with her bundle 11. G, 



INTO THE OPEN. 119 

(Mrs. Lowe, Wiiliam and Jeannette sit down at the 
table.) 

Wil. Where's the panacakes? 

Mrs, L. The young lady didn't have time to make 
'em. 

Jean. Why, mother! 

Wd. Then Yi\iy don't you make 'em? 

Mrs. L. You eat what's on the table. What's good 
enough for us is good enough for you. 

Wil. (^angrily). I git panacukes every Friday night 
for twenty years. 

Mrs. L. Well, you don't get 'em to-night. 

Wil. {ivith suppressed rage). Then I go where I can 
get 'em. {Exit Wil with his pipe B. C. 

(Jean and Mrs. L. continue to eat.) 

Jean. Father is drunk again. 

Mrs. L. That won't hurt him. 

Jean. But it hurts me. 

Mrs. L. Don't be running your father down behind 
his back. He's good enough for me, and so he's good 
enough for you. He never gets drunk in the daytime 
except Sunday's. He's not like Dick Lusher and Jim 
Keg, and that's the reason lie don't get tired. He's had 
a steady job for twenty years, and Mr. Wirapleton told 
me hisself, that Bill could work for him all his life. 
They started in business together, and they's going to 
stay in business together as long as they live. That's 
what old man Wimpleton told me hisself, and he ought 
to know. It's the money he spends wl.at hurts me. 
Nearly all his wages goes for beer. 



120 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean. Has he ranch money with him ? 

Mrs. L. He had two dollars this morning. 

Jean. When that's gone, he'll go to the store again 
and sleep on the coffee sacks. 

Mrs. Jj. Well, supposen he does? 

Jean. Mr. McGregor does not know that father goes 
to the store at night. 

Mrs. L. Hasn't he got a key? (Jean, rises <o cZear 
the table; Mus. Lowe prevents.) 

Mrs. L. I'm not done yet (pours another cup of 
coffee and continues to eat). 

Jean. {Goes to a closet and takes out a child's gar- 
ment^ which she mends.) 

Mrs. L. There's only four keys to that store. Mr. 
Wimpleton's got one, Mr. McGregor's got one, the head 
bookkeeper's got one, and your father's got one. Why 
even young Wimpleton's got no key, and he's the 
son of the man what owns the store. That shows what 
tliey think of your father. 

Jean. I wish you had let me bake the pancakes. Why 
should 'nt he have them? 

Mrs. L. What's the use of bothering about the pan- 
cakes? He'll be home at five o'clock in the morning. 
After he sobers up, he'll eat his breakfast as still as 
a mouse. He'll take bread and water then without 
kicking. 

Jean. If he should ever be found at the store at night, 
it would cause trouble. 

Mrs. L. He thinks more of the store than of his 



INTO THE OPEN. 121 

own family. He'd rather sleep on a pile of coffee sacks 
than in his own bed. 

Jean. He must not go there again at night. Mr. 
McGregor is now running the business and he is very 
strict. 

Mrs. L. He don't look like a mean man. 

Jean, He's very exacting. 

Mrs. L. What do you know about that? 

Jean. A great deal. — Yes, we must beg father not to 
go to the store again at night. Where do you think 
he went first? 

Mrs. L. I don't know. There's a dozen saloons 
between here and the store. 

Jean. Perhaps I can find him and bring him home. 

Mrs. L. That shows what you know about it. You 
could find him easy enough, I guess. But finding him in 
a saloon and bringing him home, is two different things. 
I used to try that myself. 

Enter Susan ; Maggie and Hinie trailing beJmid. Susan 
in a flashy and vulgar hall dress R. C. 

Mrs. L. (^clapping her hands and rising from the 
table). For the land's sake, Sue, where did you get 
that dress? 

Sus. {with a sneer at Jean). 1 made it stemming 
tobacco. 

Mrs. L. That's a lie, child. Tell me the truth. 

Sus. Well, you needn't get mad about it. I borrowed 
ten dollars from Pete. Me and him is going to get mar- 
ried some day, anyhow, so what's the difference. 



122 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean. You'll find it easier to get ten dollars from him 
now, than ten cents after you're married. 

Mrs. L. {to the children). Who told you to get out of 
bed ? 

Hill. We wants to see Susie. 

Mrs. L. {scrutinizing Susan's dress). Ten dollars? Is 
that all you paid for that dress? 

JSus. ll'n a twenty-five dollar dress, and it's worth it. 

Mrs. L. Where did you get the other fifteen dollars? 

Sus. That's what you'd like to know, ain't it? Well, 
I'll tell you {to Maggie, slapping her hand). Keep your 
dirty paws off my dress, you little pig (Ma<;(;ik Joins 
lIiNiE i)i a corner near the right fronts ichere they sit looking 
on Susan tcith ivondering eyes. Susan sets a mirror o)l 
the supper table^ a)id in self -admiration adjusts her dress). 
There's some places in the city wiiere the peoi)le ain't 
so mean as the old miser where we always buy our 
stuff. There's some people what knows, that a person 
can be honest witliout being rich, and who'll trust poor 
people as well as rich ones. Pete took me to a man 
who keei)S a store and helps poor girls to get decent 
clothes. Tiiat store's got everything in the world ; 
stoves, furniture, pictures, car[)ets and everything. I 
paid him ten dollars down, and for the rest I pay him a 
dollar a week until — 

Jean. It is worn out — 

Sus. It is all paid. He gave me some papers to sign, 
and after I put my name down, he locked the papers in 
his safe, and told me that was just as good as money. 
I can give him a dollar a week easy enough, but if I was 



INTO THE OPEN. 123 

to wait for a dress until I had twenty-five dollars in a 
lump, I might as well make up my mind to run naked. 

Mag. When I gits big, I'se going to get a dress like 
Susie, too. 

Bin. And when I gits big, I kin chew terbaccer like 
Uncle Pete. 

Mag. And you kin smoke like papa. 

Hin. (^puts his hand in his pocket and takes out some 
cigar stumps). I kin do that already. 

Jean, (^pours some ivater in a basin and crosses over 
to HiNiE, tvhom she takes by the hand). Come with 
sister, Hinie, and she'll wash your face. 

Iliri. I don't want to. 

Jean, {takes him over and drawing his hand from his 
pocket, discovers the stumj^s). Where did you get those 
cigar stumps, you nasty little boy? Throw them away, 
quick ! (Jean takes the stumps and throws them aside. ) 

Hin. (^ivhile being tvashed, repeats crying). I wants 
my butts, I wants my butts. 

Jean. Now go to bed quick ! 

Hin. (^crying as he crosses the room). I want my butts. 

Sus. (^picks np the stumps) Stop your hollering. 
Here's your butts, you little mick. Now run away 
quick, or they'll take them away from you again. 

{Exit Hinie R. C. 

Sus. I guess it won't kill him. 

3frs. L. Go to bed, Maggie. 

(Exit Maggie E. G. 

Sus. You don't like this style, do you, Jennie? 



124 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean. I haven't said anything against it {begins to 
clear the supper table). 

Sus. You don't say it, but you think it just the same 
{takes a chunk of bread in one hand and a piece of 
sausage in the other, and eats). Things is going to be 
different after a while., Pete says it's a crime, that 
all the big stores down town are full of silks and satin, 
when there's thousands of poor girls running around 
in rags. The other night when I was coming home from 
the factory, I stopped to look at the show windows 
in Van der Million's store. Pete comes up to me 
and says : Sue, you see that dress marked tbree hundred 
dollars? Well, that dress is going to some woman, 
that doesn't do as much work in a year, as you do 
in a day. But all the same, she gets that dress and 
you don't. See? {Takes another piece of saiuiage.) 
I've got just as good a right to be a lady as Mildred 
Wimpleton, and you can bet your life, Pm going to 
be one, if I do have to work for my living. 

'Jean. It requires something more than clothes to be a 
lady like Miss Wimpleton. 

Mrs. L. Yes, and she don't show off with her clothes, 
either. 

Sus. That's because she's a crank. If I was as 
rich as she, you would' nt catch me running a kinder- 
garten and trying to boss a refuge for no-good girls. 

Mrs. L, Jennie says, Miss Wimpleton takes no pay 
for her work. 

Sus. May be she don't. Rat all the same, slie keeps 
some poor person who needs the money, out of that job. 



INTO THE OPEN. 125 

Enter Pete B. G. 

Pete. Are you ready, Sue? 

Sics, Look at me? 

Fete. Holy smoke, you're a stunner. If some of the 
boys gets full to-night, they'll fight for you, sure. 
But I'm on my muscle, and would'nt mind firing a 
couple of roosters down the stairs. Come along ! 

Sus. (Wipes her Jiands and mouth on a dirty dish 
towel. ) 

Exit Pete and Susan B. G. 

(Mrs. Lowe resumes scrubbing. Jeannette throws 
down the garment she has been mending.) 

Jean, Isn't this terrible? 

Mrs. L. Now don't get one of your complaining 
spells again. 

Jean. But I have a right to complain. A mother on 
her knees scrubbing, a father drunk, a sister going — 
well, you see where she's going (^sits at the table and 
buries her face in her hands'). 

Mrs. L. Yes, she's got her Pete, and you've got 
your dude, and between the two I think Pete is the 
better man. — If I was expecting a fellow to take me to 
a party, I'd be dressing, instead of sitting there and 
crying. 

Jean. O mother, you don't know what life is. We 
grovel here in dirt and darkness, while out beyond, 
within a stone's throw of our hovel, there shines a world 
of wealth and distinction. Could we but work our way 
into the open. 



126 INTO THE OPEN. 

Mrs. L. You want to be better than your parents, do 
you? 

Jean. (^Emphatically) . Yes, I do. 

Mrs. L. We are honest if we are poor. 

Jean. Poverty is not the only badge of honor, nor is 
every rich man a thief. The few paltry dollars for 
which father sells his existence is not the only honest 
money in the world. There are men in the city, who 
earn, ten, yes twenty thousand dollars a year, and do it 
with as pure a conscience, as father gets his eleven dol- 
lars a week. 

Mrs. L. Since you work for rich people, you want to 
be rich yourself. 

Jean. Don't you? 

Mrs. L. It's no use. 

Jean. Since I was a child this constant cry against 
wealth, power, prominence, against everything pertain- 
ing to success has been dinned into my ears. And what 
good has come of it? What peculiar virtue clings to a 
life of rags and squalor, that will not flourish equally as 
well with luxury and power? 

Mrs. L. You talk like a book, because you got educa- 
tion. I can't help it, that we hav'nt got as much money 
as Mr. Wimpleton. 

Jean. 1 know that. But why look down on that to- 
wards which we should look up? Why seek excuse and 
apologies for our poverty! It's a flattery of our weak- 
ness, which doesn't help. I'm sick of it. I want no 
apology for our poverty. I want a remedy ! You have 
giown gray in this life of misery; it has become your 



INTO THE OPEN. 127 

second nature. From day to day yon toil and struggle, 
without hope and without ambition. But I am not \^et 
reconciled to the life of a slave. God filled this world 
with joy and plent}^ but he gives it to those only who 
take it. 

Mrs. L. Didn't we do everything we could for you? 
Didn't you beg us to go to the High School, instead of 
working in the factory, and didn't we let you? 

Jean. Yes, heaven bless you (Jcisses her). 

Mrs, L, And now you look down on us. 

Jean, (^iveepiiig on her neck). No, I pity you. You 
are blind and do not wish to see. 

Mrs. L. I can't understand you, Jennie. 

Jean. Thjn forgive me, mother. I did not mean to 
be liarsh, bat, my condition frets me at times, and then I 
mu^t speak. 

Mrs. L. Whatevcir you do, Jennie, I hope you will 
alwuys be a good girl. 

Jean. I shall try. Bat good and weak is not much 
better than bad and strong. 

Mrs. L. Well, well, good night. I can't help you. 

Jean. I tell you what, mother. Your Jennie will try to 
be neither good and weak, nor bad and strong, but will try 
to be good and strong. {Someone knoclcs at the door. 
Mrs. Lowe goes to oj^en — Aside): That's Clem 
WimpletonI He's an hour too soon. I must get ready. 

{Exit Jean R. G. 

Enter Bayard and Mildred B. C. 

Mrs. L. {loith much courtesy ing). Mr. McGregor, 
good evening, good evening. Miss Wimpleton. 



128 INTO THE OPEN. 

Bay. Good evening, madam. Mrs. Lowe? 

Mrs. L. Sure, and that's myself. ^ 

Bay. Could we see your daughter, Miss Jeannette? 

3frs. L. Jeannette is it? Yes, I'll call her. 

( Exit Mrs. Lowe R. C. 

Bay. Mildred, you alone can save the girl. 

Mil. As I said before, Bayard, your fear is foolish. 
Jeannette Lowe's safety requires neither your keeper- 
ship nor mine. 

Bay. She is an odd character, Mildred, full of vagar- 
ies. 1 have kept an eye on her at the office, and there is 
MO telling what she may not do. 

3fil. Above all, she will take good care of herself. 

Bay. She is simply incalculable. You do not know 
her as well as I do. 

Mil. Since when? 

Bay. Don't be silly, Mildred. This is a seri(jus mat- 
ter, and you have promised to help me. I could not 
well speak to her alone. 

Mil. Ver}' well, then. Ah, but this implicates my 
brother. I did not think his libertinism would be as 
bold as that. 

Bay. There's no doubt, whatever. A friend of mine 
told me less than an hour ago, that Clem Wimpleton last 
night at the club made it his boast, that he would take 
the girl to the ball at the Forest Inn. 

Mil. Then she must have good faith in Clem. And 
that explains why I see so little of her lately. She 
avoids me, fearing I would ol)ject to her marriage with 
my brother. Perhaps she loves him. 



INTO THE OPEN. 129 

Bay. Sometimes I fear she does. 

Mil. (surprised). You fear it? 

Bay. Yes, (embarrassed) for he will deceive her. 

Mil. If she has Clem in view, my presence here will 
not help you. When she perceives the object of our 
visit, she'll stand aloof and never permit me to speak to 
her as a friend. Here she comes. 

Enter Jean, and Mrs. Lowe R. C. 

Bay. Good evening, Miss Lowe. Mildred, you and 
Miss Lowe are old friends, I believe. 

3Iil. We taught at the same school two years or more. 

(Jean, intently regards Bat. and Mil. showing she 
entertains misgivings as to the object of their visit.) 

Bay. (aside to Mil.). Be cordial to her, Mildred. 

Mil. (aside to Bay.). Cordial to an icicle.? How can 
1 ? She has already given me a chill. 

Bay. Miss Lowe, if you will kindly permit, Miss Wim- 
pleton and I would like to speak to you for a few 
minutes. 

Jean. With pleasure. Be seated, please. (Draws up 
tiuo kitchen chairs after having wiped them. Bay and 
Mil. sit, Jean, remains standiyig.) 

Bay. Miss Lowe, the matter concerning which we came 
to speak to you, is a delicate one, and if in course of our 
conversation my words become distasteful, my utter dis- 
interestedness will clear me of any selfish intent. 

Jean. Certainly. 

Bay. We are here on a mission of inquiry, and if you 
will pardon the presumption, on a mission of advice. 

9 



130 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean. You are very kind. 

Bay, This visit, I assure you, is no less disagreeable to 
us, than I perceive it is to you. 

Jean. Oh, that is secondary, Mr. McGregor. An act 
prompted by a sense of duty redounds more to a man's 
credit, than his pursuit of self-interest. 

Bay. Pray, consider it so. 

Jean. Ah, yes; thus the rich lecture the poor. Their 
visits are as alms. Miss Wimplelon, what would you say 
to a gentleman, who on calling apologized for his presence 
by declaring, that no bent of inclination, but a sense 
of dut}' brought him there? 

Mil. This is not a social call. 

Jean. Ah, yes; I forgot. Cut glass and cracked china 
are not set on tlie same shelf. Mother, will you please 
leave us alone for a little while? Mr. McGregor wishes 
to speak to me on business. Miss Wimpleton will keep a 
watchful eye on us, to see tiiat we do not make love 
to each other {laughs ironically). 

{E.cit Mus. Lowe R. C. 

Bay. (aside to Mil). I'm afraid she's too far gone. 

Mil. {aside to Bay.). No, you mistake, but she has 
a quick wit and a nimble tongue, and will likely get 
the better of the argument. 

Jean. Well, since now the Star Chamber is in session, 
let the inquisition begin. 

Bay. There is no occasion for sarcasm or pyrotechnics 
of speech. Miss Lowe. You are a bright winsome young 
woman, but you are proud, and your pride threatens 
to delude you. Do not interrupt me, please. I have 



INTO THE OPEN. 131 

some right to discuss your affairs, for to speak it 
prosaically, you are in my employ. 

Jean. Mr. Wimpleton engaged me. 

Bay. Mr. Wimpleton is my associate: in relation to 
our help, we are one. 

Jean. And you have come to discharge me? {Bay 
remains silent. After a pause) : Why do you wish me 
to resign ? 

Bay. I prefer you should guess that, rather than tell 
you. 

Jean. But you shall tell me. 

Bay. The atmosphere of a counting room is not con- 
ducive to the morals of an ambitious and thoughtless 
young woman. Doubly so, when nature's gifts make 
her a mark for designing men, who's appetite is their 
conscience. 

Jean. What do you mean ? 

Bay. You compel me to speak plainly, Miss Lowe, 
and since you persist, it shall be done. Mr. Clement 
Wimpleton pays you attentions, and you accept them. 
I say it here, in presence of his sister, who would not 
permit me to slander her brother, but who for your sake, 
will not forbid me to tell you the truth. Mr. Wimpleton 
is a reckless man of the world, whose wealth and position 
give him scope to commit much wrong with impunity. 

Jean, {smiling). Mr. Wimpleton will do me no 
harm. 

Bay. He has done so. Let it go no further. Miss Lowe. 
Quit your position at the office, and resume your voca- 
tion at school. 



132 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean, {hesitates and then suddenly) : Suppose I marry 
Mr. Wimpleton ? 

Bay. I should be sorry for you even then. But do 
not deceive yourself. 

Jean. Am I his inferior in any respect but money ? 

Bay. As far as money is concerned, you have earned 
more than he. Nor would you suffer on comparison in 
any direction. {Seriously) But were you ten times 
more attractive than you are, these treasures are con- 
sidered by men like Wimpleton, not as a jewel, to wear 
while life lasts next his heart, but as a brief bauble, 
to be cast aside as soon as the next toy greets his fancy. 
{Rises and approaching Jkas. speaks in a beseeching man- 
ner.) Therefore go back to school; your dignity will 
suffer nothing. Look at my cousin, she too taught 
school, and is rather proud than ashamed of it. 

Jean. Yes, if I were as you, I could look on life as you 
do. Miss Wimpleton may well be happy. She lives in 
a mansion and wears fine clothes. She has a retinue of 
servants and a stable of horses. She lives surrounded by 
opulence and culture ; the foremost men and women of 
the city, she calls her friends, and not a genteel house 
but what opens its doors to welcome her when she knocks. 
It is so easy to be good when one is rich, so easy to be 
content when every heart's wisli is gratified. And you, 
too, Mr. McGregor, are blessed, be3'ond the power to 
comprehend my situation. What can you, the head of 
a great mercantile house, a director of a bank, the presi- 
dent of a club, the forceful member of a doaen powerful 
organizations, what can you know of the strifes that 



INTO THE OPEN. 133 

rend the heart of a pauper child who lives in a tenement, 
and must crawl because she is poor? 

Bay, Poverty is no disgrace. 

Jean, {quickly). But it is poverty. The complexion 
of men's hands does not reflect the complexion of their 
hearts and conscience, but it does reflect the caliber of 
their intellects. What right have you to intrude between 
me and my ambition? 

Bay. None, Miss Lowe. I have no business here, 
unless I may claim a friend's privilege of warning, when 
he sees you rushing headlong into perdition. 

Jean. I'll not deny you that, Mr. McGregor. But to 
my mind your fear for my safety is a delusion, or a — 
subterfuge. 

Bay. Subterfuge? 

Jean. Yes ; and unless you desist, you will force me 
to the conclusion, that you came here, not to save me 
from' Mr. Wimpleton, but to save Mr. Wimpleton 
from me. 

Mil. {aside). I knew that would come. 

Bay. (rising). Then I beg your pardon Miss Lowe 
{takes up his hat). 

Jean. What heinous crime have I committed, that I 
should be condemned to a life drowned in obscurity? 
What flaw unfits me to become the wife of Mr. Wimple- 
ton? Am I deformed in body or soul? Am I ugly or 
dull? Is not my heart as warm, my head as clear, my 
body as wholesome, as if I had been born the daughter 
of a king ? Steal me by night, and pillow me in the 
deep down of some millionaire's mansion, and I will rise 



134 INTO THE OPEN. 

at noon and tread the npper walks of life, withont a 
bhisli of embarrassment, and without a trace of my base 
origin! {A carriage is heard to a2')2^roach.) That is 
Mr. Wimpleton. (To Bay.) Do you wish to meet him 
here? 

Bay. Will you permit me to speak to him alone? 

Jenji. Certainly (defiantly). Tell him what you please. 
Let us go into the other room, Miss Wimpleton. 

Mil. Do be a sensible girl, Jeannette. 

(Exeunt Jkan. and Mil. R. C. 
(^Someone knocks B. C.) 

Bay. Come! 

Enter Clem Wijipleton in evening di'ess C. B. 

Clem. Well, by Jove, that's prett}^ good. What in the 
hell are you doing here? 

Bay. Undoing what you are trying to do. 

Clem. You are not an ollicer of the Salvation Army, 
arc you ? 

Bay. No. 

Clein. Well, then, my dear Bayard, don't meddle with 
my little affairs. (Goes to the door leading to the other 
room and calls) : Jennie ! 

Je m. (from icithin). I'll be therein a minute. 

Clem. If I've found a good thing, don't play the fox 
and steal m}' chicken. 

Bay. What do 3^ou mean by calling on a girl employed 
at our (office, at this time of the night? 

Clem. Don't get warm. Bayard. I'm not going to 
use her as a type-writer girl to-night. 



INTO THE OPEN. 136 

Bay. No, but you are goin^ to take her to a carousal 
of sports and demi-monde at the Forest Inn. 

Clem. I see, you're on. 

Bay. But I'm going to prevent this piece of devilish 
business. 

Clem, (dejiardbj). How? 

Bay. A fine place to take a woman whom you intend 
to marry. , 

C'em. Marry, is it? That's nice. Did she tell you 
that? 

Bay. You probably told her. 

Clem. I don't believe she could prove that. 

Bay. So you are r* ally goirg to take an innocent girl 
into that swirl of abandonment and vice? 

Clem. Oh, it's not near so bad as that. The opening 
dance will be as dignified as the masked ball of the Na- 
tional Club ; and as for gorgeous costumts and shapely 
women, the ball at the National can't touch it. 

Bay. It always ends in an orgy. 

Clem. Yes, it may get a trifle swift towards daylight. 
I'll send Jennie home in my carriage, when the fun 
gets too fast. But since when am I accountable to 3'ou 
for my actions ? .Jennie Lowe is twent3'-three years of 
age audi am tiiirty, and both are therefore exempt from 
guardianship. So savs the law. 

Bay. And your conscience? 

Clem. That's mine! Don't ride your high horse of 
morality, Bayard. If your heart yearns to break a lance 
for the salvation of women, you can find ample oppor- 
tunity without interfering with me. My sister, Mildred, 



136 INTO THE OPEN. 

can introduce you to a hundred girls, the redemption of 
any one of which should be in your mind, as good a 
deed as the rescue of this one. I'm in a generous mood 
to-night, and therefore treat your meddling as a jest, 
instead of treating it as an insult which no gentleman 
will brook. And to demonstrate my liberality, I'll make 
a bargain with you. Now, as far as Jennie Lowe is con- 
cerned, she is neither your sister nor your mother, nor 
your wife ; in fact you have no more unselfish interest in 
her than in a million other women. Now, here's my 
proposition: I'll cancel my arrangement for to-night on 
condition that you procure for her an invitation to Mrs. 
Colonel King's reception to-morrow, and there present 
her to the Vassars and the Smiths and the Wellesleys 
and the Bryn Mawrs as my friend, Miss Lowe, a t) pe- 
writer from my office on Market street. 

Bay. Nonsense. 

Clem. And to make the picture more striking, you 
might also invite her mother with her bucket and her 
brush. 

Bay. Nonsense. 

Clem. That's your name for it. And yet compared 
to what other martyrs have undergone, this should be 
but a trifle to a man of such moral grandeur as yourself. 
Indeed, if 3'ou accept my proposition, and I am thereby 
bound to forego tlie priceless pleasure I anticipate in 
course of to-night's revel, I shall consider my sacrifice 
the greater of the two. 

Bay. (icith rising anger). Sophistry! King's re- 
ception and the Forest Inn orgies are not her only choice. 



INTO THE OPEN. 137 

If I cannot pave her way into Colonel King's mansion, 
need you therefore lure her through the hell gates of the 
Forest Inn? 

Clem. If you cannot elevate her into good society, I 
can at least help her into gay society. 

Bay. Why can't she remain as she is? 

Clem. She could if she would, but she won't. She is 
self-willed and ambitious {sarcastically). She wishes to 
rise. 

Bay. And you offer her a helping hand? 

Clem. Do you? She is free, white and twenty-one as 
they used to say, and does what she pleases. I am using 
no force, and not much persuasion. She takes to it quite 
naturally. I've had a Spanish costume made for her, the 
most artistic thing you ever laid your eyes on. When 
she gets her pretty figure into that spangled silk, and 
a half a bottle of wine into her blood, she'll be a livelier 
cricket than some of the girls that are more used to it. 

Bay. You say, she knows where she is going? 

Clem, (smiling). She trusts me, that's enough. 
But if you think the shock might prove too great, I'll 
prepare her for it by easy stages on the way. 

Bay. I have warned her ; she will not go. 

Clem, {scowls and then firmly calls) Jenniel 

Enter Jeannette m the costume E. C. 

Clem, {smiles triumphantly at Bay and speaks earn- 
estly to Jeannette). Jennie, Mr. McGregor informs me 
that he has warned you against my society. He has told 
you that to follow me would lead to your ruin. In his 



138 INTO THE OPEN. 

presence 1 do not deign to offer a word of apology or 
contradiction. I simply say to you : choose between 
us. 

Bay. (^frigidly — Jean, regards Bayard intently, and 
changes luhen he mentions poverty^. Mis3 Lowe, if there 
be a spark of rectitude in your spirit, if you honor 3'our 
father and mother, do not follow this man. Do not sac- 
fice your honor to your vanity, but remain here in 3'our 
parent's house, however poor and stricken with want. 
The hardships of your poverty are more honorable, than 
the allurements of his gilded vice. 

Clem, (^smiles and extends his hand). My carriage is 
waiting. (Batard 6uWo?is his overcoat. — Jean, looks 
once more at Bay. and then determinedly takes Clem's 
hand). {Exit Clem a7ul Jean B. C. 

Enter Mildred R. C. 

Md. 1 argued hard with her, but she firmly believes in 
Clem. 

Bay. {taking up his Jiat). Let us go, Mildred ; we 
came too late. {To himself suddenly). Stay, there is 
one more chance. 

Mil. What did you say ? 

Bay. {excitedly). Would you mind going home 
alone? 

3fil. No, why? 

Bay. Then I'll send you a cab. 

3fil. Where are 3'ou going? 

B<(y. To the ball! {Exit Bay B. C. 



ACT II. 



SCENE. — Office of the Wimpleton Grocer Co. 
The stage represents the clerical department of a 
wholesale grocery house. bookkeepers at work 
behind a glass partition. several desks in the 

FRONT. An office boy STANDS BY ONE OF THE DESKS. 

E7iter Monmouth L. F. 

Mon. {goes to the rear of the office, and brings for- 
vmrd a satchel with cigar samples, which he opens. To 
the office hoy) : Has Mr. Clem Wimpleton been here this 
morning? 

0. B. No, sir. 

Mon. You look at me as if you had never seen me 
before. 

0. B. Oh, yes: you are Mr. Monmouth. 

Mon. {loud and important). P. Henry Monmouth, 
the biggest cigar salesman that travels cut of New York. 
Here : put these in your pocket {gives the boy a hand- 
ful of cigars). 

{Exit O. Boy R. C. 

Mon. If I can clinch an engagement with Miss Mildred 
Wimpleton, I'll be fixed for life {lights a cigar). But 



140 INTO THE OPEN. 

she ain't easy. She's got a fortune in her own name, and 
will get another from her father. It's just as easy to 
fall in love with a rich girl as with a poor one, and damn 
sight more profitable. 

Enter Cleh B. C. 

Mon. Hello, Clem. How do you feel? Say, I just 
received a note from your sister. She's not feeling 
well, and begs to be excused from attending the opera 
with me to-night. Say, Clem, do you think I have any 
show? 

Clem, (jyreoccupied). I think she likes 3'ou as well as 
any man; [{askle) thank the Lord, that isn't saying 
very much. (Takes Mon. aside earnestly.) Hal, there's 
something crooked about that escapade of ours at the ball 
last night. 

Mon. What's the trouble? 

Clem. That damn coachman of mine denies flatfooted, 
that he drove the girl home, and also denies, that he 
afterwards drove us to the office. 

Mon. I should think we know about that. 

Clem. I think so, too. He claims to have played 
poker in the club-basement, and that when he came out 
the carriage was gone. He thought somebody was play- 
ing a joke on him, and so went back to continue his 
game. When he came out the second time and the rig 
was still absent, he went home, where he claims to have 
found the horses and carriage in the stable yard. 

Mon. Somebody must have been awfully drunk. 

Clem. Yes, he says he was. 



INTO THE OPEN. 141 

Mon. How about you? 

Clem. You know as well as I, that he drove us to the 
store here. 

Mon. I don't remember much about it. Perhaps it's 
just as well, that everybody has forgotten about it, hey? 

Clem. It was high time we found an opportunity to 
fix the case on some one. Lucky for us, that Jennie 
asked me to intercede for her father, if he ever should be 
caught at the store at night. 

Mon. Yes, and the fool girl told you, he had gone there 
that very night. 

Clem. That's what I call playing in luck. 

Mon. But it's rather tough on the girl to promise her 
your protection, and then turn on her father in this fash- 
ion. 

Clem. My promise was on condition that she would 
behave herself. We had good luck with Bill, too. Had 
he been awake, it would not have been so easy to get the 
book. 

Mon. He snored like a trooper from the time we en- 
tered until we left with the book. 

Clem. Well, I'm glad it's over. Bayard is mighty 
deep and would have caught on before long. He's been 
nosing through every department of the business. This 
morning two of his pet clerks have begun checking and 
rechecking every book in the office. 

Mon. Yes, I guess, we worked that racket for the last 
time. But it coined money while it lasted, didn't it? 

Clem. First class. 

Mon. Say, did you find a package of papers ? I took 



142 INTO THE OPEN. 

off my coat in the carriage as we went into the store last 
night, and I must have dropped them out of one of my 
pockets. 

Clem. I didn't see them. What kind of papers were 
they? 

Mon. Damn ugly papers to lose. Among them were a 
number of those dummy bill heads. 

Clem. Were they filled out? 

Mon. Of course not. 

Clem. Then what's the difference? Whoever finds 
them will not know what they mean. 

Mon. Suppose Bayard gets them? 

Clem. Suppose? Suppose you were struck by light- 
ning? that might also happen, but its too remote to con- 
sider. Hal, suppose you turn over a couple of hundred ; 
I'm devilish short. 

Mon. I've hardly enough to get back East. I'll send 
you some as soon as I get to New York {looking at his 
ivatch). Let's go to Tony's and get something. 

Clem. I'll be with you in a few minutes. Go on 
ahead, and I'll follow. And one thing more. I want 
you to keep your fingers off that girl. 

Mon. Why? 

Clem. Because she's mine. 

Mon. She is, is she? 

Clem. Yes, and when I ask you to keep off, I mean it. 

Mon. Now, old boy, don't get hot under the collar. 
Remember our bargain is to go halves. 

Clem. Not with the girl. 

Mon. Oh, yes, and with the girl. Before you get ex- 



INTO THE OPEN. 143 

cited, remember, I can show you up whenever I feel 
like it. Tote fair, honey. 

{Exeunt Mon. and Clem. L. F. 

Enter Bayard and Police Officer R. F. They remain 
at the entrance during the entire scene and converse sotto 
voce. 

P. 0. One of the main doors was wide open. 

Bay. What time? 

P. 0. Three o'clock. I walked in to investigate and 
on entering the shipping clerk's office I found your por- 
ter Bill sitting in a chair fast asleep. Do you allow any 
of your men to sleep here at night ? 

Bay. No. 

P. 0. That's what I thought. 

Bay. Well, go on. 

P. 0. I shook Bill, and asked him what he waa doing 
there at that time of night. Instead of making some ex- 
cuse, he grew insolent, and told me to get out — that it 
was none of my business, that he had a key to the store 
and went there whenever he felt like it. If it had been 
anyone but old Bill, I would have hauled him off to the 
station. 

Bay. Did you leave him there ? 

P. 0. No. After some coaxing, he came out and 
locked the door. I walked half way home with him, by 
which time, he had about sobered up. I have known 
Bill for a long time, and he sort of considers himself 
boss of this place. Still I thought it my duty to report 
the occurrence. 



144 INTO THE OPEN. 

Bay, That is right. Your action was both discreet 
and honorable. I am very much oljliged to you. 
(shakes hands with the P. 0.)- What is your address? 

P. 0. Timothy O'Bryau, 909 Ireland avenue. 

Bay. Good. Having reported this to me, it will not be 
necessary to mention it further. 

P. 0. I understand. Good morning. 

(Exit P. O. R. F. 

Bay. (to one of the clerks, who responds). Willi (Bay 
writes on a slip of paper.) Send this box of cigars to 
this address. (Pushes a button.) (To office boy loho 
answers): Tell porter Bill, I wish to see him. (Office 
boy goes out. Bay sits at his desk and examines some 
papers.) I am confident Bill had no hand in this busi- 
ness. But Clem and Monmouth must not know I sus- 
pect them. I shall discharge Bill for his carelessness ; 
that is sulRcieut ground. I must use Bill as a blind ; his 
discharge will throw the others off their guard. 

Enter William R. B. 

Bay. Bill, come here. I am told, you were at the 
store last night. Is that true? 
Wil. Yes, sir. 

Bay. Well, that requires an explanation. 
Wd. I promise, I never do it again. 
Bay. Was any one else here with you? 
Wil. No, sir ; only the policeman. 
Bay. Do you come here often at night? 
Wil. Not so very often. 
Bay. H'm. Not so very often. Well, why did you 



INTO THE OPEN. 145 

come here last night? You came here drunk last night, 
left the door wide open, and slept in a chair in the ship- 
ping office until the watchman found you. 

Wil. The women folks is to blame for it, Mr. McGregor. 
When I come home last night they wouldn't give me no 
panacakes. 

Bay. What's that got to do with it? 

Wil. I gits panacakes every Friday for twenty years, 
and that makes me mad. And I gets mad quick when 
they make me mad. And then I came down town to get 
some lunch at Henry's and when Henry locked up, I 
went to the store, because I had no other place to go. 

Bay. Do you often get so mad, that you have to get 
drunk and sleep at the store? 

Wil. About five or six times. 

Bay. So. Well, the store was robbed last night. 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing, Mr. McGregor. I work 
for Mr. Wimpleton now for twenty years already and I 
never stole a nickel's worth. I wouldn't do it, Mr. Mc- 
Gregor. 

Bay. The fact remains that the store was robbed last 
night, and that last night you were here. 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing. 

Bay. I don't say that you did, but appearances are 
against you. Until I find out who did the stealing, I am 
going to lay you off. Get your hat and go home and 
keep your mouth shut while I investigate. In considera- 
tion of your long and faithful service, I will keep the 
matter quiet, and when I am satisfied that you are honest, 
you can come back. Give me your key. 

10 



146 INTO THE OPEN. 

Wil. {takes his key from a cord loorn about his neck 
under his shirt, and gices it to IJataud). I dicln't 
steal notbing. 

Bay. That's enough. Now go (goes to the rear of the 
office). 

Enter Jeannette R. F. 

(Exit William 7^. F. 

{As William leaves he passes Jeannette, thus for a 
moment presenting a striking contrast between the refined 
appearance of the daughter and the stolid boorishness 
of the father. — Jean, sits down to her typewriter at a desk 
beside BAYAUo'd. She looks pale and tvoru; supports her 
head in her hand. — Bayard loith some large sheets of 
paper in his hayid comes forward with a bookkeeper. 
He is startled at Jean.'s appearance. Their eyes meet; 
she turns aside. After a j^ause, to the bookkeeper) : 

Bay. Have you found that receiving book? 

B. K. It cannot be found. The book is kept in a 
vault outside, which though fire-proof is not locked. 

Bay. Yes, I know. Spend no more time looking for 
it now. How far back do these sheets run? 

B. K. To the first of the year. 

Bay. Run them back six months further, to the semi- 
annual inventory of June last. 

B. K. Yes, sir {withdraws to rear office). 

Bay. (aside). And this has been going on at the 
rate of five hundred dollars a month for the Lord knows 
how long (takes a seat at his desk, by the side of that 
of Jeannette's). Miss Jeannette, take this telegram, 



INTO THE OPEN. 147 

please. (Bay. dictates^ Jean, writes). " B. U. Speedy, 
Comaiercial Building, New York City. Kindly inves- 
tigate Good Faith Cigar Factory, sixty one Nine Hundred 
and First street. Wire answer to me personally. Mc- 
Gregor." 

Enter Monmouth L. F. 

Mon. Ab, good morning, Mr. McGregor. Glad to se^ 
you looking so well. How have you been? 

Bay. (during this coyiversation Bay. is more or less oc- 
cupied with his balance sheets). Pretty well, thank 
you. 

Mon. 1 am glad to hear that. I've been in your city 
for a number of days, but somehow, I always missed 
you when I called. How's trade? 

Bay. We can't complain. 

Mon. That's good. Prospects pretty good for the 
fall trade, don't you think? 

Bay. Yes. 

3fon. I've just come down from the Northwest. 
Cigar business has been rather dull up there. 

Bay. I thought a smart fellow like you could always 
make things go. 

(Jean. ri)igs a bell, whereupon a messenger boy appears 
to whom she gives the telegram.) 

Mon. That's right, that's right. When I can't make 
it go one way, I make it go another. But I tell you a 
man's got to be up to date nowadays. Warm weather 
you are having here. 

Bay. Yes, it's pretty warm. 



148 INTO THE OPEN. 

Mon. Oh, well, it's only the first few warm days that 
are unpleasant; after we grow accustomed to it, we don't 
mind it so much. 1 was in Chicago last week, and there 
it was so cold, that I was glad to have my overcoat. 

Bay. Indeed. 

Mon. Yes, it was quite cold there. 

Bay. {ivith Greeted importance). But it will grow 
warm there too. 

Mon. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. 

Bay. There's the morning paper. 

Mon. Thank you. O Mr. McGregor, would j'ou per- 
mit your stenographer to take a letter forme. I was out 
with the boys last night, and neglected to write to my 
house. Accidents will happen, you know. 

Bay. Certainly. Miss Jeannette, this gentleman 
wishes to write a letter. Please take it from him. 
i^Aside) The scamp doesn't wish to write any letter 
at all. Well, after last night's experience, she is in 
no danger of being stung by that gadfly (^goes to an- 
other part of the olfice). 

Mon. {sits doivn on a chair on the other side very 
close to Jean.) You're looking pretty bright for having 
been up so late. 

Jean. For heaven's sake, Mr. Monmouth, I don't 
know you. 

Mon. Don't be frightened, little girl, I'm not going 
to give you away. 

Jean. What do 3'ou wish to write? (Takes her pad 
and pencil and writes doion what he says.) 

Mon. I don't want to write any letters. I want to 



INTO THE OPEN. 149 

talk to you. Say, Jennie, I've been around a good deal, 
but of all the girls I ever met in my life, I never saw one 
that looked as well as you did at the ball last night. 
That's it: You keep on writing, nobody will catch on 
then. I'm just dead in love with that costume. Clem 
and I were damn fools for getting drunk so early ; we 
might have had still more fun if we had staid sober ; 
couldn't we, Jennie? Why did you give us the slip? 
Clem was a bit too affectionate, but you ought to make 
allowance for a fellow when it gets to be midnight. 
(Bayard, observed by Jean, but not 62/MoN., steps up be- 
hind and overhears.) That coachman of Clem's, minds 
you better than his boss. When you rushed down the 
stairs and called for help, he just picked you up and 
bundled you into his hack, and drove off. Don't get 
mad; I'm not going to give you away. Say, Jennie, I 
want you to take a drive with me to-morrow night. Now 
don't say no; I'll make it worth your while. I'll be as 
good a friend to you as Clem ever was. I've got ten to 
his one. (Bat. walks around and appears to L. F. of 
MoN. and Jean.) Here comes Mr. McGregor. Now 
don't miss, I'll send you the prettiest garter in Tif- 
fany's store, and will never breathe it to a soul, that you 
were at the Forest Inn. 

Jean. Qwith suppressed agitation). Is that all? 

Mon. {aside). She's a sly one. 

Bay. Miss Jeannette, are you through with Mr. Mon- 
mouth? 

Jean. 1 have the notes, but have not yet written out 
the letter. 



150 INTO THE OPEN. 

Mon. {aside). My, how the little rogue can lie. 

Bay. Mr. Monmouth, can your letter wait a few min- 
utes? I have some pressing matter here. 

Mon. Certainly. Any time will do. 

Jean. I hope the gentleman will be pleased with my 
work. It was the most unusual dictation I ever took, 
but I am sure I have it all. 

Mon. {aside). What does she mean." 

Jean. Does the gentleman wish me to mail his letter, 
or docs he wish to sec it for correction ? 

Mon. Come to think of it, the letter will not reach 
New York in time. Give me the notes. I shall have to 
send it by wire. 

Bay. {observes that Jean, hesitates). Give him the 
notes. 

Jean, I have some memoranda on the other side of 
these leaves. 

Bay. Then mark the letter, " not sent." (Jean, does 
as directed., and with an air of satisfaction continues to 
work at her machine.) 

Mon. {aside). Hell! I believe she put ' down every 
word I said to her. Well, she'll not tell tales out of 
school, if she knows what's good for her. Good morn- 
ing, Mr. McGregor. If Clem should come, tell him I'll 
be back shortl3\ 

{Exit Mo\. taking his sample hag L. F. 

Bay. {aside). We shall keep an eye on you, too, Mr. 
Monmouth {crosses to R. F. pausing a moment to look 
at Jean, loho again avoids him). 

{Exit Bay. Ji. F. 



INTO THE OPEN. 151 

Jean, {despairingly). Oh, what a fool I was to go with 
bim last night! (Resolutely) And yet for my sake, it 
was well I went. Now I know what you are, Clem Wim- 
pleton. Your wealth and position tempted me to become 
your wife, but your — 

Enter Clem L. B. 

Clem. {goi}ig over to Jeai^.). How did you get home 
last night? 

Jean. By myself. 

Clem. Did my coachman take you home.? 

Jean. I don't know and 1 don't care. / 

Clem. Why did you run away from me? 

Jean, {bristling up). Clem Wimpleton, have 3^ou the 
audacit}^ to look me in the face and ask me that? 

Clem. You see, I have. 

Jean. You're a creature beneath contempt. Until 
3'e&terday, I considered you a gentleman, whose inten- 
tions were honorable. 

Clem. That is to say, you supposed I intended to 
many you. 

Jea7i. You know I did. 

Clem. Well, now, Jennie, there isn't a girl living 
whom I would rather marry than yourself ; but, you see 
I'm too young yet. My education demands, that I see 
more of the world, before I am fit to settle down, and 
play husband and papa. 

Jean. You shall rue it, Mr. Wimpleton. 

Clem. Not so swift, please. If you had spoken to me 
in this fashion yesterday, perhaps I sliould have consid- 



152 INTO THE OPEN. 

ered it politic to wheedle you into good humor. But 
since your participation in the festival at the Forest Inn, 
I have a powerful check to curb your capricious 
temper. 

Jean. No doubt, your brutality could stoop even to 
that. But, Mr. Wimpleton, if 1 have been deceived in 
you, you have also misjudged me. Do you suppose I 
am going to sit idly by, and let your threats of exposure 
frighten me from one degradation to another? No, sir. 
I have sense enough lift to see what that would lead 
to. That I was inveigled into a night of disreputable 
orgies at the Forest Inn, shall not be noised abroad by 
your whispered innuendos ; the moment this affair 
becomes known, I shall go to your father and your 
sister, and tell them, tell them why I was there, with 
whom I was there, and all that occurred there. 

Clem, If you do, you are lost. 

Jean. But delivered from you {starts to leave^ but 
observing the approach of the elder Wim. she returns to 
her work. ) 

Clem, {aside). There's mettle for you. But I'll 
trim your claws, my little pussy cat; you see if I don't 
{about to leave L. F. meets his father). 

Enter John Wimpleton, L. F. 

Wim. Good morning, Clem. 
Clem. Good morning, pop. 

Wim. You beat me down this morning. 
Clem, I've been here an hour or more. 

Wi'tn. I'm glad to hear that, my boy. You've got a 



INTO THE OPEN. 153 

good bead, and with a little more of Bayard's applica- 
tion, you'd make a great success. 

Clem. Bayard's a plodder, and that's all. As far as I 
can see, the men that work longest do not make the most 
money. 

Wim. Yes, yes ; genius is a great thing. 

Clem. It's not my nature to grub with details. We 
can hire clerks for that. If you had let me take that 
flyer on the coffee exchange last week, I would have 
made the firm more money in one day, than Bayard does 
in a month, although he growls and grinds ten hours a 
day. 

Wim. There's no use talking about that. Bayard will 
absolutely permit no margin speculation. 

Clem. Is he the head of the house? 

Wim. (slowly). No, he is not. 

Clem. Then why can't I have my way; Bayard treats 
me here in the house like a zero, and what's more he 
instructs our employees to do so, too. I'm in touch with 
the men who make the markets, but the pointers they 
give me are no good, unless I can have funds to operate. 
Don't you see the prestige I would gain in the eyes of 
every one here, if I made thousands while Bayard wastes 
his time earning dimes and quarters? 

Wim. I did let you place a thousand on cotton last 
summer. 

Clem. Oh, a man can't always hit it the first crack. 

Wim. Where's my mail? 

Clem. I sent it upstairs. 

Wim. Come with me. I have a meeting at twelve, 



154 INTO THE orEN. 

and would like to have you holp me arrange some 
papers. 

Clem, {looks (it liis ivdtch). I haven't much time, 
fatiier. There are half a dozen pO(jple wailing for me now. 

Wim. I'm <2;lad you keep yoursilf so busy. The firm's 
interest first, our private affaiis afterwards ; that is my 
motto, too. But con)e, I'll not keej) you lonir. 

(KrenutWi^i. andCiA.M. li. F. 

Enter Hayaui) from the r^<ir. iSits at his desk. 

Jean. {Jhhjets irith some papers on her desk^ and 
then ttjith an air of determination approaches Hay. ivlio is 
busy 7i:ri(inrj). Mr. McGre«^or, I wish lo apolo«j;ize for 
my uncivil conduct towards you at my house last night. 

J>((y. {looking up, extends his hand). There, say no 
more about it. All's well that ends well. 

Jean. Still, I feel I owe you an explan;ilion. When 
you called on me last ni<;ht, I was insensible to tiie 
charitable nature of your visit ; I saw in it only a superior 
and di9<]juised effort to prevent a mesalliance. I have 
grown a year wiser since yesterday. My illusion has 
l)een dispelled. 

Bay. I fail to comprehend, how a girl of your mental 
caliber could permit so shall jw a man as Clem Wimpleton 
to lea«i her by the nose. 

Jean. Until last night Mr. Wimpleton's conduct 
towards me had been always that of a gentleman. 

Bay. That is a comforting bit of imforraition. Miss 
Lowe. 

Jean. Thank you. My conscience demands that I be 



INTO THE OPEN. 155 

perfectly open to you, Mr. McGregor. It was my wish 
to marry Mr. Wimpleton. 

Bay. You speak of that in a rather matter-of-fact way. 

Jean. And you despise me for it, I know. But I 
came to you to speak the truth. I do not wish you to 
think otherwise of me than I am, no matter what the 
consequence may be. 

Bay. You wished to marry Mr. Wimpleton for his 
money? 

Jean. That is forcible, Mr. McGregor, but hardly fair. 
I am not ignorant of the fact, that a high-minded woman 
would spur her ambition to a loftier goal, than the mere 
riddance of penury. I lay no claim to such virtue, but 
I do claim to know the difference between poverty and 
wealth, for I see both, and know whereof I speak. The 
rich cannot comprehend the poor. In their eyes it is un- 
pardonable presumption, that the poor should strive to 
be as they are. But I am wasting your time with a 
tedious harangue. — Last night, I resented my dismissal 
from your service : now I see it is best so, and I thank 
you. 

Bay. What do you propose to do? 

Jean. Follow your advice ; teach little children their 
A. B. Cs. and be humble. 

Bay. I thank you for that. I am quite sure the little 
children will profit by your instruction. Bat, as to your 
humility, I sincerely doubt that you will ever achieve 
distinction in that direction. 

Jean. When may I go? 

Bay. Whenever you wish. 



156 INTO THE OPEN. 

Jean. Then I will go to-day, after I have done my un- 
finished work. 

Bay. If I can assist you in obtaining a position in the 
pubHc schools, let me do so. 

Jean. Miss Wimpleton was kind enough to promise 
her endeavors in my behalf. I shall take the liberty to 
trouble her (^puts her desk in order). 

Bay. If you consider it no breach of confidence, I 
should like to have the notes of Mr. Monmouth's dicta- 
tion. 

Jean, Why, you overheard him, did you not? 

Bay. Only in part. 

Jeaji. {tears some leaves from her loriting jiad). Here 
they arc. Have them deciphered ; they will serve to show 
what miserable things men Skve {Bxyxhd folds the leaves 
carefully and puts them in his pocket). 

Enter Formerly attired old fashionedly, carrying a carpet 

bag, L. F. 

Jean. Some one wishes to see you, Mr. McGregor. 

Bay. {Turns and observes Formerly. To Jean.) Be- 
fore you go, 1 would like to see 3'ou for a minute. {To 
Formerly) Good morning, sir. 

Form. Don't know me, do 3'ou? 

Bay. Yes, I think I do. You are from — na — what's 
the name of that place. There are three towns in your 
State, that have almost identical names, and I cannot for 
the life of me keep them apart. 

Form. Swamp Hollow. 

Bay. Yes, that's it. Swamp Hollow, of course, now 
there's Swamp Hill and Swamp Prairie — 



INTO THE OPEN. 157 

Form. Never heard of them. 

Bay. Have a seat, Mr. Formerly. 

Form. Well, now, you do know my name, don't you? 

Bay. Oh, yes, I never forget any man's name after I 
have seen him once. 

Form. But you never saw me before. 

Bay. That's doing better still. My name is McGregor, 
Mr. Formerly, and I'm very happy to meet so old a friend 
of our house. 

Form. Been buying groceries here, 'fore you were 
born, I reckon. 

Bay. But you don't come to see us often. 

Form. Used to come down twice a j^ear. But now- 
adays you fellers keep so many drummers after us, a 
man ain't got no chance to come to the city to buy any- 
thing. 

Bay. Still, I am glad to say, we hear from 'you quite 
regularl3\ 

Form. I guess that's all you care for. As long as 
you get my orders and my money, it don't make much 
difference whether you see me or not. 

Bay. How are you getting on ? 

Form. Pretty well. I'm the boss in those diggins. 
There's nothing going on in Swamp Hollow, but what 
Jackson Formerly has got a hand in it. 

Bay. Have a smoke, Mr. Formerly? {Takes a box of 
cigars out of his desk.) 

Form, Haven't got quite so high toned yet. But, if 
you'll give me some tobacco, I'll light my pipe. 

Bay. (calls). Will! Bring Mr. Formerly a package 



158 INTO THE OPEN. 

of our Private Growth Tobacco. (Jean, zvrites on her 
machine. Formerly follows her with his eyes and is per- 
plexed. Office Boy brings tobacco to Formerly, luho 
has taken out his pipe luhich he Jills). 

Form. (To O. B.) Do you smoke, boy? 

0. B. No, sir. 

Form. What do you want to be lying to me like that 
for? You city kids all smoke cigarettes, don't you? 
(Bo.y loUhdraws loithout reply.) That boy will never be 
president. 

Bay. What makes you think so? 

Form. Got no spunk. 

Bay. Here's a match. 

Form. What's the best coffee worth? 

Bay. Twenty-one and a half. 

Form. That's kind'er high, ain't it? 

Bay. Let me show it 'to you. 

Form. No, never mind. Where's John? 

Bay. (calling). Will! Go upstairs to Mr. Wimpleton, 
and tell him, an ohl friend of his, Mr. Formerly, is here. 
(To Formerly) : He'll be glad to see 3'ou. 

Form. Hey, boy! (Boy stops.) You tell John, that 
I came all the way from Swamp Hollow to buy a bill of 
goods from him, and that I want to buy it from the old 
man himself. Do you hear? 

0. B. Y'es, sir. (Aside) He's a lulu from way 
back. (Exit O. B. R. F, 

Bay. How long do you propose to remain in the city? 

Form. Can't tell. I brought Maria and two of the girls 
down with me. The girls never was in the city before. 



INTO THE OPEN. 159 

I guess, I'll have to show them the town. By the way, 
does Henry Monmouth come around this way any more? 
He's my nephew, you know. 

Bay. Indeed? Why, yes, he was here this morning, 
not more than half hour ago. 

Form. I want to talk to that young fellow. I gave 
him two hundred dollars to pay a dry goods bill for me 
about three months ago, and the bill ain't paid yet. 
What do you think of him. Is he straight? 

Bay. I don't know much about him. 

Form. He wrote me a letter last week, saying he's 
going to marry a rich girl, and then he'd fix it up. But 
the girl had better keep her eyes open ; Hal's a pretty 
gay bird. 

Bay. How so? 

Form. Why, I had no sooner given him them two hun- 
dred dollars, than he runs off with a girl from Swamp 
Hollow. Her folks thought they were married, but the 
girl turned up again about two weeks later, and if Hal 
Monmouth ever shows his phiz in the county, they'll 
dress him in a coat of tar and feathers. 

Bay. I glad to have met you, Mr. Formerly. 

Enter Jno. Wimpleton, R. F. 

Form. Hello, John ! 

Wim. How do you do, Jack. Looks like old times to 
see you here. How have you been ? 

Form. Tollable, tollable. 

Bay. {aside). That tobacco isn't as good as I thought 
it was {retires to rear of office). 



160 INTO THE OPEN. 

Form. John, you are getting old. Got any trouble ? 

Wim, No, none in particular. Well, Jack, let's get to 
work. 

Form. All right (takes off his coat). I told your 
clerks that I was going to buy this bill from the old man 
himself. 

Wim. That's right. Sit down here, and we'll see what 
we can do for you. 

Form. Say, John. 

IFm. Well? 

Form. Come liere a minule (takes him aside where he 

whispers in a loio voice). I've heard all along, that you 

had grown so ail-powerfully rich. Is that all stuff, or are 

you so busy, that you've got to get your women folks to 

help you out ? 

Wim. How so? 
Form. Over there. 

Wim. That's a stenographer. 

Form. Daughter, yes, that's what I thought. 

Wim. No, not my daughter. She's a clerk. She writes 
with a machine (YoR^i¥.vi\.Y appears surprised). I have 
another one upstairs. 

Form. Say, does your wife know it? 

Win. I sui)po3e so, although I do not remember ever 
having told her. 

Form. Say, John ; that's pretty nice. 

Wim. Sit down, Jack. 

Form, (takes a chair, with Wimpleton hi-tioeen him- 
self and Jea.n. Stares at Jean absent-mindedly). Give 
me five sacks of the best green coffee. 



INTO THE OPEN. 161 

Wim. {writing). Any roasted coffee? 

Form. No sir-ee. The women in Swamp Hollow ain't 
too lazy to brown their own coffee (still looks at Jean. 
who is at work with her machine). What's yellow clari- 
fied sugar worth? 

Jea7i. (sotto voce). Four twenty-five. 

Wim. Four twenty-five. 

Form. Give me two barrels. Send me some that isn*t 
as hard as a rock. I had to use a crowbar on the last 
barrel I got. 

Wim. Why don't you buy granulated sugar? 

Form. Don't want none of your artificial stuff. I 
don't sell none but genuine goods. What's nails worth? 

Jean, {sotto voce). One ten. 

Wim. One dollar and ten cents. 

Form. Give me ten kegs spikes, and about three kegs 
shingle nails, and two kegs clapboard nails, — better 
make it three kegs. Jim Crow is building a new barn, 
and he wants a good many. And, mind you, don't send 
me any more of those new fangled wire nails. They're 
no good ; they got no heads on 'em. I want the genuine 
old style cut nail. 

Wim. I can sell you those for — 

Jean, {sotto voce). Ninety. 

Wim. Ninety cents. 

Form, {seems to have heard Jean.). Send me some 
brown wrapping paper, large size. 

Wim. Any paper bags? 

Form. Not much. We buy the paper and make the 
bags ourselves. I don't believe in throwing money away 

11 



162 INTO THE OPEN. 

for things I can make myself. What's baking soda 
worth ? 

Jean, {sotto voce). Three. 

Wim. Three cents, Jack. 

Form. Say, John, the young lady wishes to speak 
to you. 

IFim. {ivith a knowing look at Jean.). What is. it, 
Miss Jennie? 

Jean. I beg your pardon, I was figuring aloud. 

Wim. Go ahead, Jack, what's next? 

Form. Let — me — see. 

Wim. Did'nt you bring a list of what you want? 

Form. Not much, John. I'm not so weak-minded 
yet. I've got my business in my head. — Let — me — 
see — 

Wim. I'll tell you what' we'll do. Jack. We'll go 
across the street to get a drink, and finish up afterwards. 

Form. That's a good idea. Come to think of it, Maria 
will be down to see you to-morrow anyhow. I've been 
letting her run the little things about the store, and she 
might as well have the fun of buying them {takes up 
his coat). 

Wim. Just leave your coat here. Will, put Mr. 
Formerly' s coat and satchel in the wardrobe. 

Form, {to O. B.). Hands off, my boy. {To Wm.) I 
feel better when I've got them with me. 

{Exeunt Wim. and Form, carrying 

his coat and satchel, L. F. 

(Bayard comes forward from rear office). 



INTO THE OPEN. 163 

Bay, {standing by the side of Jean.). From now 
until the beginning of the next school year, is almost 
SIX months. Shall I find you a suitable position for the 
interim ? 

Jean. No, Mr. McGregor, I must accept no more 
favors from men. That was my great mistake. 

Bay. All men are not alike. 

Jean. Nevertheless, I desire to shift for myself. 
Above all others I wish to place myself right with 
you, Mr. McGregor, by proving that I am no worse 
to-day than 1 was yesterday. I have lost your 
respect, but I will redeem it. If you really feel an 
interest in my welfare, you can best prove it, by con- 
sidering me out of the world. 

Bay. On condition that you will send for me when 
you need me. 

Jean. When I need you, yes. 

Bay. May I not drop around some evening to see how 
you are getting along with your humility? 

Jeaii. You had better not do that, Mr. McGregor. 
The atmosphere of a house, where the parlor is in the 
kitchen, will not prove so congenial to your refined 
taste, as the luxuries of your club, or the velvet settee 
of some mansion in the west end. 

Bay. You are caustic, Miss Lowe. 

Jean, {extends her hand). Goodbye! 

{Exit Jean. L. F. 
{Bayard follows her with his eyes, and then sits at his 
desk gazing absent-mindedly at his balance sheets.) 



164 INTO THE OPEN. 

Enter Clem B. C. 

Clem, (looking over Bat.'s shoulder). Well, any luck? 

Bay. {starts}. It looks bad for Bill. 

Clem. It seems he often spends his nights at the store. 

Baij. Yes, he admits that. 

Clem. Do 3^ou find that any goods are missing? 

Bay. I'm on a scent. 

Clem. What class of goods are short? 

Bay. Cigars, I think. 

Clem. Then it's Bill beyond doubt. He and I carry 
the onl}' keys to the cigar room, which shows no sign of 
having been forced. I'd have him arrested at once. 

Bay. (slowly). No, I don't believe I'll do that. 

Clem. Why not? He was found here last night, and 
this morning the receiving book can't be found. The 
stupid fellow thought that if he burnt the book — 

Bay. Did he burn it? 

Clem. I suppose so. The book being destroyed, he 
thought we could not tell whether any cigars were 
stolen. 

Bay. Then you think that cigars are stolen? 

Clem, I thought you said so. 

Bay. I said I thought so. Well, it will be an easy 
matter to ascertain the quantity, but you may find it 
more difficult to prove that Bill is the thief. I have dis- 
cliarged Bill, so there is no further danger from that 
direction. 

Clem. What are you going to do about it ? 

Bay. Nothing. I think it will be best for all concerned 



INTO THE OPEN. 165 

to pass it in silence. Tiiere's a certain pride at stake. 

Clem. How so? 

Bay. Business pride, I mean. Should this affair leak 
out, some of our competitors would make sport of our 
methods which permit such things to occur. I would 
not even mention it to the old gentleman. 

Clem. Yes, that's so. It would merely irritate him, 
and do no good an3'^way. 

Bay. Exactly. And a civil action against Bill would 
not lead to recovery of the cigars. 

Clem. But the thief ought to be punished. 

Bay. That's true. But in the present case, you must 
see yourself how disagreeable that would be. 

Clem. We'll consider the matter closed, then? 

Bay. Unless circumstances arise, that necessitate 
opening it up again. 

Cltm. I see, two of the boys are assisting you with 
these sheets. Can they be impressed with the necessity 
of silence? 

Bay. Tho^Y never speak. 

Clem. 1 didn't think you would take it so coolly. As 
I am not a partner in the firm, the loss is half yours and 
half the old man's. I am, so to say, a looker-on 
{laughs). But it's right, I ought not laugh about it. 
Good-bye. 

Enter a messenger ivith a telegram L. F. 

(Clem, signs for the message, and is about to open th 
same, when he sees it is for Bayard. Thereupon he 



166 INTO THE OPEN. 

passes it to Bay. , ivho holds it in his hand unopened until 
Clem, is out.} 

Clem. It's for you. 

Bay. Sit down here, a minute {draws up a chair for 
Clem.) 

Clem. Well? 

Bay. You took the sjirl to the ball last night? 

Clem. Yes, and we had a great time. 

Bay. Miss Lowe has quit. 

Clem. Is that so? I'm sorry for that. She was a 
good worker, but I guess she can be replaced. 

Bay. Did you see her this morning? 

Clem. I did. 

Bay. Did you observe her closely? 

Clem. She's got what my German friend. Count 
Schwamm, calls katzsnjammer. We all get that way 
when we drink too much. 

Bay. Then you are conscious of the ravages your night 
of sport wrought in the features of a bright and innocent 
girl? 

Clem. Your pathos doesn't impress me. Bayard. I 
told you last night, and I repeat it now, that I shall do 
with Jennie Lowe just as I please. 

Bay. {rising). No, Clem Wimpleton, not now. Yes- 
terday perhaps, but not to-day. What you will now do, 
is to give me your word of honor, that you will hence- 
forth hold aloof, and nevermore by slightest word or act 
molest the girl. Give me your word. 

Clem. And if I refuse? 

Bay. If you refuse — 



INTO THE OPEN. 167 

Clem, (laughs). You'll tell my father that 1 robbed 
his store. Bayard, you are welcorae to that. But permit 
me to remark that you are undertaking a big job. 

Bay. I'm afraid you are right in that. 

Clem. Make my father believe that I am a thief? Ha, 
ha, ha. I wouldn't be able to do that myself. 

(Exit Clem. L. F. 

Bay. (opens the telegram). " No such concern here. 
Speedy." Of course not. Why need there be. Mr. 
Monmouth simply writes out a bill, Clem marks it O. K., 
and we pay it. Why, it's as easy as lying. And to divert 
suspicion, they do what Bill would most likely have done, 
had he been the thief, they destroy the book. Mon- 
mouth deserves the prison, but I cannot proceed against 
him without exposing Clem, and I cannot expose Clem 
for his father's sake. But no matter for that, thank 
God, Jeannette, you are safe. The wretch may, at his 
peril, destroy your reputation, but he cannot ruin you! 



ACT III. 



SCENE. — William Lowe's Hodsb. 

William and JNIrs. Lowe. 

William sits stolidly at a table smoking his pipe, ivith 
an empty beer kettle before him. Mrs. Lowe washing 
dishes. 

Mrs. L. (calls). Maggie! 

Enter Maggie R. G. 

Mrs. L. Maggie, run to the grocery and get a gallon 
of coal oil and a pound of the best coffee! and if he's 
got any nice peaches, you can bring ten cents worth of 
them too — there's the basket in the corner. 

Mag. Where's the oil can? 

Mrs. L. Out in the shed. Here's the book {hands 
her the grocer' s passbook). 

{Exit Mag. R. G. 

Mrs. L. Isn't it about time you are getting a job? 

Wil. I git one pretty soon. 

Mrs. L. That's what you always say, but I don't see 
it. You say Mr. McGregor didn't discharge you, but 
only laid you off for letting the store open. That's six 
months ago. 



INTO THE OPEN. 169 

Wil. You tell me that every day. 

Mrs. L. Jennie has sold all her good clothes to keep 
us going. 

Wil. That don't make no difference. She got no more 
use for them fine clothes anyhow. Putt3^ soon I go 
to work again. 

Mrs. L. Till then we can starve. Where's the rent 
money going to come from, I'd like to know. 

Enter Maggie luith oil can and basket R. G. 

Mrs. L. Ain't you going pretty soon? 

Mag. I was there already. Mahaffy says he can't give 
us no more credit until we paid up (Jiands Mrs. Lowe 
the hook). 

Mrs. L. The dirty miser. He was willing enough to 
take our money while we had it, and now when we're 
hard up, he won't trust us. Don't you go over in his 
store again. — Here's a nickel. The Lord knows it's 
about the last I've got. Now, you go to Schmidt's 
store, and buy five cents' worth of coal oil, and if he 
want's to trust us, you can get the peaches and the 
coffee too. {Exit Mag. B. G. 

Mrs. L. You haven't done a lick for six months. 

Wil. I work every day for twenty years, now I can 
rest a little. 

Mrs. L. And I can go out washing again. 

(HiNiE pokes his head through the door R. G.) 

Wil. Come here, Hinie ! 



170 INTO THE OPEN. 

Enter Hinie, E. G. 

Wil. You are papa's boy, ain't you {takes him on 
his knee) ? 

Hi7i. If you gives me something. 

Wil. What are you going to be, when you're a big 
man? 

Hin. I's going to be a dog-catcher. And when the 
kids open my wagon to let the dogs out I throw my lasso 
over their heads. Jimmie Mullen got cauorht this morn- 
ing, but he hollered, and they let him go. 

Mrs. L. Get a bucket of coal, Hinie. 

{Exit Hinie tvith the scuttle R. C. 

Wil. Jake Faucet told me last night that he bought a 
big boarding house on the Levee, and that he needs some 
girls to clean up. If Jennie can't get a better job, he'll 
take her for a chambermaid and give her ten dollars a 
month and board and lodging. 

Mrs. L. The place that Jake Faucet bought is nothing 
but a low dive for niggers and roustabouts. That 
would be a pretty place to send your daughter to. 

Wil. Decent people won't have nothing to do with her. 
She's had four different places, but they all send her off 
when they find out who she is. 

Mrs. L. Somebody is doing her dirt. Whenever she 
gets a place, somebody writes a letter to her employer 
that she was with the fast women at the ball, and that 
settles it. The goose won't deny it, and then they send 
her off. But next week school begins, and then Jennie'll 
teach again. 

Wil. Maybe she will, and maybe she won't. 



INTO THE OPEN. 171 

Enter Hinie carrying a coal scuttle much too heavy for 

him, R, G, 
Enter Maggie with oil can and basket B. G. 

Mag. Here's the coal oil. Schmidt says he can't give 
us no credit until we pays Mahaffy. 

Mrs, L. Even the peanut stands are making trusts 
against the poor people. Get me some kindling, Hinie. 

Hi7i. There ain't no more in the shed. 

Mrs, L. Then go to that new building in the next 
block and get some plaster laths. 

Hi7i. I can't get no more. Dey's watching 'em. 

3Irs. L. Well, you can find some wood, somewhere, I 
guess. Hurry up ! 

{Exit HiN, B. G. 

Mrs. L. Maggie, you shine up the stove. I've got to 
20 out to see if I can find some work for to-morrow. 

CD 

{Exit Mrs. Lowe R. G. 

Wil. Maggie, here's a dime ; get me some beer. But 
don't you go to Alec's again ; he gives you short measure. 
When I send you for beer, I want you to go to Jake's, he 
gives nearly twice so much. 

Mag. I don't want to go to Jake's. 

Wil. But I want you to. 

Mag. {crying). I. don't want to go to Jake's. 

Wil. Why not ? 

Mag. {blubbering). When 1 went there yesterday, 
some men lifted me on the counter and made me dance 
and pinched my legs. And Billy the barkeeper never lets 
me out of the saloon, unless I let him kiss me. 



172 INTO THE OPEN. 

Wil. Well, you just go to Jake's again, aud if anybody 
hurts you, I'll fix 'em (falls asleep). 

(Exit Maggie with beer kettle B. C. 

Filter Mrs. Lowe, Clem, and Monmouth E. C. 

Mrs. L. There he is (^goes to Bill and shakes him). 
Wake up! Mr. Wimpleton wants to see you. 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing. 

Clem. Much obliged. 

Mrs. L. Anytliing else you want. 

Clem. No, thank you. 

(Exit Mrs. Lowe H. C. 

Clem, (shakes Bill). See here, Bill, I want you to 
sign this paper. 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing. 

Cl€7n. I know you didn't. 

Mon. I know it, too. 

Wil. Will you let me come back now? 

Clem. Listen to what I say. 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing, Mr. Wimpleton. I never 
stole a nickel in all my life. 

Clem. Keep still. You may be as innocent as a baby, 
and get to the pen for all that. 

Mon. There is more than one man in the penitentiary 
who was sent there by the thief who did the stealing. 

Wil. Can they lock me up even if I didn't steal 
nothing ? 

Clem. Yes, they can. Now, look here. This paper 
states, that the goods were stolen on the night you left 



INTO THE OPEN. 173 

the store open. If you sign it, I will give you fifty 
dollars. 

Wil. I dida't steal nothing {rises). 

Clem. There's the paper. If you don't sign it and 
bring it to the offioe by to-morrow noon, I'll have you 
arrested {gives paper to Bill). 

Wil. 1 didn't steal nothing. 

(Exit WiL. R. C. 

Clem. That'll fetch him, I think. 

Mon. Clem, I don't see what I've got to do with this. 
That article in the paper was a piece of fool business. 
The jig is up, and I am going to get out. 

Clem. And leave me in the lurch? If I had known you 
were that kind of a man, I'd never have gone in with 
you. You were the one that proposed the scheme. 

Mon. Yes, I know. You are the weak, misguided 
youth and 1 the deep-dyed villain. Clem, you're a 
chump of the first water. The whole affair had gone 
asleep and everything had been forgotten. Bayard 
didn't move, because he thought you had dropped the 
girl. And now you stir the whole damn thing up again 
by publishing a fool article in the paper, which will 
cause Bayard to pounce on us like a wild cat. You see 
if he doesn't. 

Clem. I've got it in for the girl. 

Mon. Damn the girl. Besides, what show have I to 
marry your sister if Bayard proves that you and I are 
thieves. 

Clem. He can't. 

Mon. Well, I think he can. He's on to us long ago, 



174 



INTO THE OPEN. 



and has kept it dark for your father's sake. You ought 
to be kicked. Clem, I want you to go with me to your 
sister, and I want to go right now. When she hears 
about the cigar business, I'm doomed. 

Clem. I'll go with you to-morrow. 

Mon. I wish to go now. 

Clem. She's not at home now. Bill's declaration 
will clear us. He'll be considered guilty of negligence, 
that is all. 

Mon. You should have thought of that six months ago. 
It's too late now. 

Enter Mks. Lowe R. C. 

Clem. Where do you think your husband went? 
Mrs. L. To Jake's, I guess. 

Enter Maggie ivith beer kettle B. C. 

Mrs. L. What you got there? 

Mag. Papa sent me for some beer. 

Mrs. L. Give it here. {Exit Maggie listlessly R. C. 

Mrs. L, Have some, gents? 

Mo7i. Much obliged (Mrs. Lowe drinks out of the 
kettle). 

Mon. Say, Mrs. Lowe, isn't that Miss Jennie I saw in 
the next room ? 

Mrs. L. Yes, sir! Do you wish to see her? I'll call 
her, for she likes to see high-toned gentlemen, a good 
deal more than her ugly old father and mother (calls.) 
Jennie! 

Jean, {from without). Mother! 

Mrs. L. There's a gentleman here wants to see you. 



INTO THE OPEN. 175 

Enter Jeannette, poorly clad to indicate straitened 
circumstances R. C. Seeing the men remains at the 
door. 

Mon. (^approaching Jean.). Hello, Miss Jennie. We 
called to see your father, but since he is out, I shall be 
happy to receive a welcome smile from you. 

Mrs, L. My, how fine he talks. His words are as 
handsome as his clothes. No wonder the ladies takes to 
such men. 

Mon. Won't you say good evening to me, Jennie? A 
penny for your thoughts (^whispering). What are you 
thinking of, sweetheart? 

Jean, (^intensely). I am complaining to heaven that it 
lias given me neither father nor brother to spurn a con- 
temptible cur out of the house. (^Exit Jean. R. G. 

Mrs. L. Why, Jennie, Jennie ! 

Mon. Your daughter is not well, Mrs. Lowe. Perhaps 
she was at another ball last night. 

(^Exit Mrs. Lowe R. C. 

Mon. She's one too many for me. 

Clem. You had more conversation with her just now 
in two minutes, than I've been able to get since the day 
she quit our oflSce. 

Mon. Better give her up and try something else. 

Clem. That's not my way of handling these things. 
When I once set out, it's either bend or break. 

Mon. She doesn't seem to bend. 

Clem. No ; my letters are returned unopened, and she 
point-blank refuses to speak to me. Now I'm working 



176 INTO THE OPEN. 

on the other tack. I've had her discharged from three 
different places in three months. Did you observe her 
clothes? They look as if she might be ready to surren- 
der. She's been banking on entering the schools, but 
when she sees the evening papers I guess she'll think it 
is time to knock under. 

Mon. Knock under? Nothing. That piece of fool 
business will knock you and me under. 

Clem. It had to be done, Hal. She wouldn't bend; 
now she's broken. Let us go to Jake's and have another 
talk with Bill. {^Exeunt Clem, and Mon. R. G. 

Enter Jeinnette and Mrs. Lowe R. C. 

Mrs. L. Why, Jennie, what's the matter? 

Jean. Nothing. 

Mrs. L. That other gentleman is a fine man. I like 
him better than Mr. Wirapletoa ; he's more friendly like. 

Jean. He's a viper, whose acquaintance is a vice. 

Mrs. L. I thought he was just the kind of a man you 
were hankering after. 

Jean. Yes, yes. I suppose I have given you cause to 
think so. But let us change the subject, mother. I wish 
to talk to you about something else. I've been dis- 
charged again. 

Mrs. L. Why? 

Jean. Same old story. But don't worry, mother. 
In two weeks school begins, and then all will be well. I 
can often be home by four o'clock in the afternoon 
then, and have all day Saturday to help you with the 
children. I'm going to be good to you and father 



INTO THE OPEN. 177 

and the little ones. I've been spending too much money 
on my clothes. I can get along with half that much, 
and if I save the rest, you will not have to hire out 
any more. 

Mrs. L. You've got one of your spells again. 

Jean. No, mother. If I do not keep my word, I 
do not hope to live. I feel ashamed of myself, when 
I see what I am. O mother, I have been so bad, so bad 
(^weeps and falls in her arms). 

Mrs. L. The girl is sick, sure. 

Jean. I am going to be so good to you, mother, 
that you will love me again, as you did, when I was 
a baby. Look at your hands and look at mine. Can 
you forgive me, mother? 

Mrs. L. I can forgive you easy enough, but I can't 
understand you. 

Jean. Whenever I am not at school, mother, we will 
do all our work together. 

Mrs. L. I'm afraid you'll soon get tired of it. You 
won't be in love with this old shanty any more than I am. 

Jean. I shall try hard, and you know I have a hard 
head. Where are the children? 

Mrs. L. Playing in the alley, I guess. 

Jean. Let us call them in ; I bought some candy for 
them. 

Mrs. L. I'm afraid she's going crazy. 

(^Exeunt Jean, and Mrs. L. R. C. 

Enter Susan and Pete B. C. 

Sus. There don't seem to be nobody here. 

12 



178 INTO THE OPEN. 

Pete. Kind of cold reception they're giving us. It's 
worse than in the picture what they call, " Bringing Home 
the Bride." 

Sus. It's bringing home the groom this time. 

Fete. Say, Sue, suppose we say nothing about it for 
a while. Let's keep it dead until we get a kind of used 
to it ourselves. 

Sus. That's not my style, Pete. Can't say I've not 
any reason to be particular proud of you, but since I'm 
your wife, the world might as well know it now as later. 

Pete. Then I'll tell you what we'll do. You impart 
the joyful tidings to your father and mother, while I go 
to Jake's and break the news to the boys. 

Sus. All right, Pete, my darling. Give me a kiss 
{kisses Pete). Be back here inside of half an hour, and, 
if you know what's good for you, coma home sober. 
This here bumming business has got to stop. I'm none 
of your lachrymosical women, what gits hysterics every 
time her old man gets full. I'm going to profit by my 
mother's experience. I remember, that many years ago, 
when I was a little kid, and father used to come home 
drunk, that my mother used to sneak oft in a corner and 
cry. And all she got for it most of the time was a lick- 
ing. If she had been smart enough to tear things up a 
bit, and show him what kind of a low-lived critter he 
was, she'd probably had a better time of it. So, now I 
guess, you know what I mean. 

Pete, Strikes me, you are starting rather early to 
make a feller walk the chalk line. 

Svs. You can walk it or not, just as you please. 



INTO THE OPEN. 179 

Only remember that I'm not going to be anybody's 
chump. 

Pete. So long. {Exit Pete 7^. 0. 

Sus, It was a hard pull, but I landed him just the 
same. My, this dress looks as if it had been pulled 
through a threshing machine. It's six months since I 
got it. Well, I guess I won't wear it twenty-four hours 
hand running again so very soon. I owe five dollars and 
interest on it yet: wo^iderif it is worth that much now 
(yawns). Oh, my: I'm tired {drops in a chair). 
One thing is certain, this family is not going to get any 
more of my stuff. Now comes Jennie's turn sure enough. 
I wonder if she'll quit blowing in her dough for tan 
shoes and elbow gloves, if mother wants her money to 
buy bread for the kids. Oh, well; Ciem Wimpleton is 
still after her. I guess he won't mind, if she strikes 
him for an extra ten once in awhile {calls). Ma! O 
Ma! 

Enter Mrs. Lowe R. C. 

Mrs. L. So you've come back, have you? 

Sus. Yes, I've come back. 

Mrs. L. You're a pretty sight. 

Sus. {laughs). That's what all the boys said last 
night. Only they meant what they said, and you don't. 

Mrs. L. Ain't you ashamed of yourself? 

Sus. What for? 

Mrs. L. Did you ever hear of a decent girl staying out 
all night with a man? 

Sus, But suppose the girl is married, and the man is 



180 INTO THE OPEN. 

her husband? Sort of takes j'Ou off your feet, don't it? 
Well, it's a fact all the same. You've got a son-in-law 
now, sure enough. Me and Pete's married. 

Mrs. L. Stop your fooling. 

Sus. We've been to the priest and here's my license. 

Mrs. L. I didn't think Pete would have married you. 

Sus. Well, he did. And since you are my mother, I'll 
tell you all about it. The way things had gone, I made 
up my mind, there was going to be a wedding or a dead 
Irishman. When I explained this to Pete, he thought 
first I was joking; but when he saw I meant what I said, 
he told me it was rather sudden, and that we had better 
wait awhile. But when I told him, the train had to leave 
on time, and that he was going on board dead or alive, 
it did not take him long to see it my way. Pete's got 
good health, and preferred going to his own wedding 
alive, than to his own funeral dead. That's the whole 
story in a nut shell, and the less fuss we make about it 
the better it'll be for us all. It's nobody's business any 
way. 

Mrs. L. And now, since you are married what are you 
going to do? Pete can't make a living for himself. 

Sxis. Don't you worry about Pete. He can work when 
he wants too, and I'll make him want to. 

Mrs. L. The Lord knows I won't stand in 3^our way 
(^embraces her). But what will the old man and Jennie 
say ; {calls) Jennie ! 

Sus. The old man won't say nothing, and Jennie '11 
turn up her nose. 



INTO THE OPEN. 181 

Enter Jeannette R. C. 

Mrs. L. What do you think, Jennie, Susan's got mar- 
ried to Pete Striker. 

Sus. Come on, Sis ; you might as well congratulate 
me. He's not a man after your notion, but then it's me 
what married him, and not you. 

Jean. I do not propose to congratulate you. Time 
alone can prove whether you have done well or not. But 
I do wish to offer you a sister's love. We have not been 
to each other what sister's ought to be ; let us do better 
hereafter (kisses her). 

Sus. {laughing). Why, Jennie, that's the first kind 
word you have spoken to me in five years. 

Jean. Perhaps I'm not alone to blame for that. 

Mrs. L. If them two girls can love each other, per- 
haps there's a good time coming for me, too. 

Enter a Messenger B. C. 

Mess. A letter for Miss Jeannette Lowe (Jean- 
nette takes letter). 

(Exit Mess. B. C. 

Sus. Whenever it's Jeannette, it comes from above. 
(Jean, opens the letter, reads and exhibits agitation. — 
Susan steals up softly and snatches the letter from Jean.'s 
hands. ) 

Jean. The letter is mine. Give it to me ! 

Sus. You can have it back as soon as I've read it 
(reads). " It grieves me to inform you, that your 
application has been rejected, for reasons which you 



182 INTO THE OPEN. 

probably already know. I will see you personally later 
in the evening. Do not despair. Cordially, Mildred 
Wimpleton " {throwing the letter on the floor) -. Pshaw, 
it's only from a woman. 

Jean. Are you satisfied now? 

Sus. No, I'm disappointed. I thought it was from 
a man. 

Mrs. L, You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sue. 

Sus. What difference does it make if I read her let- 
ters? She's always writing and writing, and writing, 
and getting letters; but it don't seem to do no good. 
The best thing sh.; can do is to get married like 1 did 
(Jean, with tears in her eyes looks scornfidly and bitterly 
at Sus. ). Oh, I know, you don't like Pete, and that's the 
reason I don't like you. The trouble is, you're too 
stuck up, and that makes me mad. But that's all right. 
I don't envy you, if you are trying to be high-toned. 
It's a good deal more respectable to marry an honest 
working man, than to flirt with a dude what sucks a 
cane. 

Mrs. L. Stop your fussing, Sue. 

Sus. I'm not fussing. But when she puts on airs 
I'm not going to stand it. Look how she's got her hair 
done up again; just as if she was a millionaire. 

Mrs. L. You can put yours up the same way if you 
like. 

Sus. You don't catch me aping rich people. Jennie's 
been loafing now for six months. She used to be blow- 
ing she could make her living with her head. If that's 
played out, why don't she work with her hands like 
honest people? 



INTO THE OPEN. 183 

Mrs. L. Where's your husband, Sue? 

Sus. He's down at Jake's breaking the news to the 
boys (Jean, picks up the letter and sitting at the sofa 
stares at it vacantly). 

Enter Pete B. G. 

Pete. Hello, folks! {Kisses Mrs. Lowe and then 
Jean., the latter remains unmoved.) 

Sus. She don't mind letting you kiss her now. Don't 
forget it's for the family's sake, Pete. I can never for- 
get how she flopped you on the mouth when you tried to 
kiss her at our party last spring. 

Mrs. L. {to Jean.). You can't get in the school.? 
(Jean, shakes her head.) 

Sus. Then she'll have to do something else. This 
family gets no more money from me. After a girl's 
married, she can't spend any money on her relatives, 
even if they are poor. 

Mrs. L. Oh, my! what will become of me and the 
children? The old man won't work, Susie's married, 
and Jennie can't get into the school. Not a cent coming 
from anywhere. Well, I guess we'll not be the first what 
starved {sinks into a chair). 

Sus. What's the use of being down in the mouth? 
What's the matter with your pet daughter, Jennie? 
You've got her yet, haven't you? She's always been 
playing the weak one what couldn't stand hard work ; 
but it's all sham. If you look at her hands, you won't 
see any signs of work ; only ink spots which she gets 
from writing letters to her beaux. She's so infernally 



184 INTO THE OPEN. 

modest, that nobody ever saw her bare arms, but they're 
as big and strong as mine. 

Pete. Perhaps they got that wa}^ from fencing in the 
gymnasium with the dudes. 

Sus. Well, just let her buckle down for a while. If 
she ever gets humble enough to confess, that she can't 
make it, why me and Pete will come to rescue. Ain't 
so, Pote? 

Pete. Yap. Saj^ did you see the latest? Just listen to 
this {takes a paper from his pocket) : now mind, Jennie, 
this isn't " The People's Friend, " but your high-toned 
evening paper, " The Times Purifier." 

Sus. Why, there's Jennie's picture as big as life 
(Jean, starts to her feet). Where did you get it? 

Pete. One of the boys give it to me in the saloon. 
Just listen to the head lines. {Reads): "Cool gall. 
A sporting girl makes application to teach in the public 
schools." (Jean, seizes the paper ^ and after reading a 
moment breaks down. Sds. takes up the paper and 
reads.) 

Mrs. L. Read out loud, Susie? 

Sus. Say, this is pretty tough. Pete, I think you 
could get a divorce on the strength of this. 

Pete. Jake Faucet said I married into a pretty gay 
family. 

Sus. Jake Faucet better keep his mouth shut. If he 
knows what's good for him, he won't say nothing about 
me. 

Mrs. L. i^ead out loud, Susie? 

Sus. It's too long. Let Jennie read it to you; she's 



INTO THE OPEN. 185 

got more time. I've got to go over and fix things up. 
The furniture is there by this time. 

Mrs. L. Where are you going to live? 

Pete. We rented two rooms over Jake Faucet's hall. 

Mrs, L. Where did you get the money to buy the 
furniture ? 

Sus. If one's up to date, and knows where to go, 
it don't take much money to buy things. 

Pete. Hurry up, Sue. 

Sus. Come over a bit after a while, mother. Jake 
is going to give us a wedding reception, and all as wants 
to come is welcome. 

Pete. You see, we didn't want to trouble you with 
a lot of people, so I got Jake to take the matter off our 
hands. He's a good friend of mine ever since I helped 
to elect him to the city council. 

Sus. That's all right, Pete. Don't let Jake Faucet 
give you a stiff like that. He'll make enough money 
out of the beer he sells to-night, to make up for his 
trouble. 

Pete. Jennie can come too, if she feels like. 

Sus. I don't know about that. After she's got herself 
in the paper like that, I guess she'd better stay at home 
awhile. There's not much love lost between us, but 
for all that she's my sister, and I wouldn't like to 
see her snubbed in public. Jake Faucet isn't over 
particular, but he's got to draw the line somewhere. 
Good bye, mother (kisses her). Good bye, Jennie! 

{Exeunt Sus. and Pete B. G. 

Mrs. L. {after a pause). Jennie! (Jean, pa^/s no 



186 INTO THE OPEN. 

attention hut remains as before loith her head bowed on the 
table.) Jennie, I've been studying it all over, and the 
more I think of it, I believe it would be best to make up 
with Mr. Wimpleton again. 

Jean, (slowly). What do you say? 

Mrs. L. I say we must live. 

Jean, {sighing). Yes, we must live. 

Mrs. L. We are going to be in a terrible fix, your 
father won't work, Susan will not give me half her wages 
anymore, you can't get any place at all, and we sold 
your last good dress this morning. 

Jean, (calmly and resigned). Here's a little stick 
pin, and the gold medal I won at school (takes the 
medal from her neck, and the pin from her collar, thus 
exposing the white throat). 

Mrs. L. And then? 

Jean. Then, then '' He that doth the ravens feed, and 
providently caters for the sparrow " — 

Mrs. L. And all this happens when I'll have to stop 
going out to work soon for a while. What's going to 
become of the children when I'm sick in bed? Some- 
thing's got to be done. Jake Faucet is willing to take 
you for a chambermaid in his new boarding house, but I 
think its more pleasant to keep company with a fine 
gentleman, than to do all sorts of dirty work in a liquor 
dive on the levee. If you write a friendly letter to Mr. 
Wimpleton, and make up with him again, I'm sure he 
would do something for us. And if he is too angry, I 
know the other gentleman what was here would be good 
to you. 



INTO THE OPEN. 187 

Jean. Are you my mother? 

Mrs. L. (^approacJiing Jeatu.). Don't be angry, Jennie. 

Jean. Don't touch me! I would have been glad to 
wash and scrub and labor for you night and day, but a 
mother who bids her daughter — 

Mrs. L. Jennie, Jennie! 

Jean. Come not near me! You will never see me 
again. 

Mrs. L. (stops her). Where are you going? 

Jean, (extricating herself). Into the street, to the bot- 
tom of the river ; anywhere, away from here, away from 
mj^self. (^Exeunt Jean, and Mrs. L. R. C' 

Enter Bayard, Mildred and Will, following B. C. 

Bay. That was her voice, Mildred, quick, over there. 

(Exit Mil. rapidly B. G. 

Bay. Promise or no promise, I shall speak to her now. 
See, who is there. Bill. (Exit Bill, R. C. 

Bay. My offer of marriage and the proof that she 
was slandered, should be sufficient to satisfy her pride. 

Enter Bill R. C. 

Bay. Who is there? 
Wil. Jennie and the lady. 
Bay. Thank God, then, she is safe. 
Wil. The lady says you should go home. 
Bay. (aside). Mildred is her angel, and I can wait. 
Now, Bill, let me see that paper you spoke of. 

WiL (hands the paper to Bay.) They want me to 



188 INTO THE OPEN. 

bring it to the office to-morrow, or they'll arrest me. If 
I sign it, I get $50.00. 

Bay. (^examining the papers). What are you going 
to do about it? 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing. 

Bay. This paper says, you saw the robbers take the 
goods and ran after them, but couldn't catch them. 

Wil. I don't know nothing about it. If I sign it I get 
$50.00, and if I don't I get arrested. 

Bay. Well, you had better let me attend to it {puts 
the paj)er in his x>ocket). 

Wil. I didn't steal nothing. 

Bay. Where's your wife? 

Wil. I don't know. 

Bay. Here's a piece of paper and here's a pencil 
{tears a leaf from his note book). Now you write on 
that, " I have gone to the country to look for work." 
Don't talk but write. (Bill writes). There'll be 
neither bribing nor arresting. How many children 
have you. Bill? 

Wil. Eight of 'em, besides the four best ones what's 
dead. 

Bay. That's a good many. 

Wil. They are all healthy. But the two oldest girls 
ain't no good. I can't do nothing with them, neither 
can the old woman. 

Bay. I'll see to it, that none of them starve while you 
are gone. Now, Bill, we'll put this note where your wife 
will find it, and then I'll put you on the train. 

Wil. On the train .? 



INTO THE OPEN. 189 

Bay. Yes, on the train. I want you to go to our 
stock-farm at Greendale, and help our manager there 
with the horses. I've telegraphed him to meet you at 
the station. You'll arrive there about three in the morn- 
ing. Now, mind you, nobody is to know where j^ou 
are, and you are to stay there until I send for you. 
If you come back before, you'll be arrested. Do you 
understand? 

Wil. All right. 

Bay. Put on your coat. And, remember, if you come 
back before I send, I'll wash my hands of you. 

Wil. {lights his pipe). If I like the place I won't come 
back at all. 

Bay. We'll see about that later. Have you any 
mone}^ ? 

Wil. I've got four dollars yet. 

Bay. That's plenty ; there's nothing to buy in Green- 
dale. 

Wil. {puts on his coat). My girl Jennie ain't no 
good, Mr. McGregor. 

Bay. What's the matter with her? 

Wil. She used to run after Mr. Wimpleton, and now 
when he runs after her, she won't have nothing to do 
with him. I told her I was going to tell you what a fool 
she was, and she said that if anybody told, she would 
kill herself. And so we all had to shut up. {rummages 
about to find some tobacco and matches). 

Bay. {aside). Then he has been tempting her all along, 
and, enraged at his failure, he prints this in the paper. 



190 INTO THE OPEN. 

Well, Mr. Wimpleton, we'll attend to your case in the 
morning. 

Wil. Jennie tries to be a lady. But, I guess, when she 
has to scrub and clean down at Jake Faucet's she won't 
be so stuck on herself any more. 

Bay. You'll be mighty proud of her some day yet, 
Bill. 

Wil. You don't know nothing about her, Mr. Mc- 
Gregor. A girl what's ashamed of her father and 
mother ain't no good. 

Bay. (aside). I don't blame her (looks at his 
watch). Come, Bill, it's time to go. 

(Exeunt Bay. a?id Bill B. C. 

Enter Mildred 7^. C. 

Mil. (peeps into the room). Tiiey have gone, Jennie. 

(Exit Mil. R. C. 

Enter Mildred and Jeannette, R. C. 

Mil. It is not like Jeannelte Lowe to fear while her 
conscience is clear. 

Jean. Is it clear? Does not my conduct teach my very 
mother to think basely of me? In her clumsy way of 
speech, she told me, your soul is rotten, your only value 
now consists in a little physical beauty. Sell it while 
you can ; it will not last long. 

3fil. She does not understand you. 

Jean, (excitedly). Does anyone else? It was all a mis- 
take! It was all a mistake! My education, my ambition. 



INTO THE OPEN. 191 

my career ; all, all wrong ! Had I from infancy been kept 
in a dark room, 1 should have never known that a bright 
sun gladdens the heart of the world ; and I should not 
have missed it. I should have been taught nothing but to 
walk with bowed head and eyes fixed in the dust. Had 
I been left alone, to grovel in the earth with blind eyes 
and horny hands, like my parents and grandparents, 
and God knows how many generations that went before, 
then this cup of gall had not come to my lips. Is it my 
fault, that God gave me eyes to see, to esteem, and to 
yearn for that which is above me? 

Mil. Do you love my brother ? 

Jean. I detest him. 

Mil. But you did love him ? 

Jean. I respected your brother, for he led me to 
believe that his intentions were honorable. 

Mil. And you were willing to marry him without love .? 

Jean. Oh, let us not talk about that, Mildred ; it 
will lead to nothing. Had he been the man of honor 
I took him for, my circumstances as his wife, would 
have been such, that to love him would have been 
an easy task. I am not of the faith of those who 
believe, that for each of us women, fate has ordained 
some one particular man. Take yourself for instance. 
However wide your social circle, your acquaintance 
among men numbers not one in a hundred thousand ; 
and yet, out of this small fraction you will some day 
receive your husband, and all will most likely be well. 
This one or none love, is the hyperbole of novelists and 
poets. I am free to confess, that in this one city alone, 



192 INTO THE OPEN. 

there are a hundred men, any one of whom could make 
me happy, and any one of which hundred could be 
happy with me. 

Mil. Mr. McGregor, for example. 

Jeayi. Ah, yes, Mr. McGregor. I have lost his good 
opinion, too. And there was a time he thought well 
of me. 

Mil. He does so still. 

Jean. I forbade him to come until I sent for liim ; 
{sighing) and he kept his word. 

Mil. But now he has broken his promise, Jeannctto, 
and is here. 

Jean. No, no, no, let him not come in {clings to 
Mil.) ; 1 could not sec him now. I would sink into the 
ground before his eyes, for look what they have done 
with me {j^icks up the neiospaper). 

Mil. You have been indiscreet. 

.Tean. So I have. 

Mil. A woman's reputation is easily smirched. 

Jean. And a man's never. On the contrary, the more 
he rakes and riots, the greater he grows in the eyes of 
his fellow men. Every escapade that costs him a couple 
of dollars and casts a women into perdition, is an ad- 
ditional feather in his cap. He may beguile youth, 
betray confidence, trample rough-shod on chastity and 
honor, the world winks at it and lets him go unscathed. 
Storms of scandal cannot shake his social standing ; 
while a woman, ah, that is different. Let calumny but 
touch her and she falls. There's the injustice, that cries 
to heaven for redress. But why blame the men, when 



INTO THE OPEN. 193 

the contemptible spirit of women makes men what they 
are? How can they help regarding our whohi sex with con- 
tempt? What man would take a woman as his wife that 
is not pure, and what woman ever took a man for a hus- 
band, and dared demand as much of him? No, instead 
of that, she spurns her fallen sisters, and worships the 
hero who felled them. Bride and groom, look where 
they come up the broad aisle of the decorated church. 
The lights glitter, the organ peals, little girls scatter 
flowers on her path, the priest stands ready to perform 
his holiest function, and a thousand friends have come 
to grace the glorious triumph of the bride. Conquest, 
forsooth, most high, to fasten the chains of matrimony 
about a man who has severed a garland of roses, five, 
ten, twenty times! (Becomes hysterical.) But what 
of that: she's a light-hearted girl and it is customary ; 
yes, it is customary. (^Laughs hysterically.) 

Mil. Don't go on like that, Jeannette. I came here 
to take you with me. I saw the paper, and knew you 
would need some one. So, come with me. Whatever 
happens, I shall always be your friend. 

Jean. Can you take up one that has been forsaken by 
all? 

Mil. Not by all, Jeannette. 

Jean. These are coals of fire, Mildred. For many 
months I spurned your friendship, and, in revenge, you 
seek me in my misery like an angel of relief. 

Mil. If my brother's arm was raised against you, his 
sister's arm shall raise you up. Come! 

Jean. How can I go to the house where he lives? 

13 



194 INTO THE OPEN. 

Mil. Clem hasn't lived at home for six months. 

Jean. I am innocent, Mildred, I swear it! 

Mil. Do you believe I would take j'ou to my father's 
house unless I were convinced, that you are as good as I 
am? 

Jean. But rcy mother and the children ; what will 
become of them ? 

Mil. Never mind ; leave that to me. 

Jean. There was a time, when, conscious of my 
strength, I defied the world. But, O Mildred, the world 
is stronger than 1. 

Mil. Come ! 




ACT IV. 

SCENE: A room in John Wimpleton's house. 
{Appointmeyits indicate refinement and wealth.) 
Enter Mildred and Clem R. B. 

Mil, Don't speak to me. You're a wicked man, and 
I'm sorry you are here. 

Clem. Why, sister, I haven't been in this house a dozen 
times, since I moved my quarters to the club, and that's 
almost half a year. Nor am I here on my account now. 
It is for your sake I came. 

Mil. So. 

Clem. Yes ; your friend Mr. Monmouth — 

Mil. My friend, Mr. Monmouth? 

Clem. Came here with me this morning, and wishes to 
speak to you. 

Mil. And you came — 

Clem. To inform you, that his nervousness indicates, 
he is about to ask a momentous question. 

Mil. Comical, you mean. 

Clem. Let him down easy, Millie. 

Mil. I'll have nothing to do with him. 

Clem. Oh, that won't do, sis. As a recognized 



196 INTO THE OPEN. 

acquaintance, be is entitled to an interview. I have 
promised him that, and you cannot with decency refuse 
it. 

Mil. Very well, then ; ask him in. 

(Exit Clem L. B. 

Mil. My friends have told me, that the heart flutters 
on the eve of an expected proposal. I appear to be 
quite calm, and yet it will be the first time any man 
will have asked to marry me. Perhaps, Mr. Mon- 
mouth's eloquence will rouse me. Here he comes. I 
must fetch something; a souvenir for Mr. Monmouth. 

(Exit Mil. hurredly R. B. 

Enter Clem and Monmouth L. B, 

Clem. Take a seat over there. She'll be here in a 
minute. 

Mo7i. (Sits. Keeps his hat in his hand. Nervous and 
timid. ) What — do — j'ou — think ? 

Clem. You don't suppose, she confides tiie inmost 
secrets of her heart to me, do 3'ou? 

Mon. No, but — I — thought — perhaps — 

Clem. She's not of a jrushino: nature. No one will 
ever learn of her love for you except yourself. I have 
arranged to bring you face to face. 

Mon. Yes, that is really all you could do. 

Clem. And in return, you agree to testify against 
Jennie Lowe, whenever I ask it. Is that right? 

Mon. That was our bargain. 

Clem.. Here comes my sister {shakes hands with 
him). Good luck to you. 

{Exit Clem L. B. 



INTO THE OPEN. 197 

Ewie?\ Mildred holding a folded sheet of paper R. B. 

Man. Good morning, Miss Wimpleton. 

Mil. How do you do ? Pray, have a seat. 

Mon. Thank you, I ask your pardon for this untimely 
intrusion ; but, Miss Wimpleton, I came — 

Mil. Take this chair. 

Mon. No, truly, I prefer to stand. Miss Mildred, 
I've often wanted to speak, but you are so much en- 
gaged, that I have found it difficult to meet you. I 
came — (^Mildred drops her eyes). Ah, I see you divine 
my intention. Will you be mine, Mildred? {Tries to 
seize her hand.) 

Mil. (^steppiitg hack). This is sudden, Mr. Mon- 
mouth. 

Mon. (with his usual buoyancy). That's what all 
gir's say. But there's no hurry. I'll not press you 
for an answer. Think it over and I'll come back. New 
York is a magnificent place {loalks up and doivn, elated 
ivith joy.) 

Mil. But I must keep house for m}^ father. 

Hon. We'll take him along. 

Mil. But he can't leave his business. 

Mon. Then I'll come here. When may I have your 
answer ? 

Mil. I could give you an answer now, but that good 
form demanded I pretend to require time. You know, 
even a watch-maker will not set you right while you 
wait. 

Mon. That's right; that's right. After you're gone, 



198 INTO THE OPEN. 

they fix it in a raiuute, and when you come back they 
charge you for a whole day's work. 

Mil. What day of the week is it, Mr. Monmouth? 

Mon. Friday (^aside in great glee). Friday is my 
lucky day. 

Mil. Ah, yes. Let me see. It is now ten o'clock. 
At eleven I have a class ; at one, 1 lunch with some 
friends, and at four I am to try a new horse. So, I 
really can't tell you when I'll be back. 

Mo7i. {eagerly). I can come at any time. 

Mil. Very well, then; come at any time, and if you 
do not find me at home, call for my maid, Minnie, and 
ask her for my decision. I'll tell it to her, and she can 
tell it to you. 

Mon. (^someiuhat dazed). 1 am very much obliged 
(starts to leave). 

Mil. And here is a little souvenir for you. It is not 
the original, but an authentic copy, the original of which 
was discovered in my father's office on a shorthand i)ad, 
about six months ajro. 

Mon. {^Receiving the copy of his dictation, makes a 
long face and loalks to the L. F., hainng forgotten where 
he entered.) 

Mil. The door is here, Mr. Monmouth. {As Mon- 
mouth leaves, his and Mildred's eyes meet. The expres- 
sion of their faces is indicative of the frame of mind re- 
sultant to each from the interview.) 

{Exit Mon., L. B. 

Mil. Conceit, thy name is man ! 



INTO THE OPEN. 199 

Enter Wimpleton, witJi his cigar and morning paper R. F. 

Wim. Who was that? 

Mil. Nobody, father, absolutely nobody {starts to 
leave). 

Wim. Here, here ; don't run away. 

Mil. What is it you wish ? 

Wim. I wish you to sit down here and explain. 

Mil. Explain? Explain what? 

Wim. You ought to know that better than I. 

Mil. (^rising, with contempt). Oh, he's a fool! 

Wim. Who's a fool? 

Mil. Mr. Monmouth. 

Wim. Mr. Monmouth? Yes, of course, I know that. 
Of course he's a fool. 

Mil. But it was really comical, father. Did you hear 
us? {^Laughs merrily.) 

Wim. Sit down there. I didn't come here to crack 
jokes about Mr. Monmouth. 

Mil. It was too ridiculous. What do you tiiink father, 
Mr. Monmouth wants to get married. 

Wim. Marry him then, and be done with it. 

Mil. You don't think as much of your daughter as I 
do. 

Wim. That's enough now. Listen ; you've had Jennie 
Lowe in your room with you last night. 

Mil. {soberly). I did. 

Wim. Wasn't it a bit imprudent to take the girl into 
our house? Seems to me some quiet hotel, or perhaps 
your refuge, would have been a more appropriate place. 



200 INTO THE OPEN. 

Mil. Not at all. Our family, or at kast a iiicmltcr uf 
our fauiih^ has attempted gross injury on this youDg 
woman, and I consider it the solemn duty of our family 
to set her right before the world. 1 propose to make her 
cause my own ; if society cuts her, it will have to cut me 
too. Do you object.^ 

117m. Object? Weil, no. I haven't objected to any- 
thing you do for ten 3ears. Still, I dare say, you would 
not relisli having your name associated with the scandal 
in yesterday's paper. 1 could suggest some catch}^ head- 
lines for a second cha[)ter. For instance; " Wronged 
and Rescued." " Pigstye and Palace. Miss Wimi)lc ton 
takes a girl wronged by her brother from the slums into 
her palatial home." How would that do? 

Mil. Father, if you knew no more about banking and 
groceries, than you know about women, you would be 
smoking a clay pi[)c instead of that inipcjrted cigar. The 
machinations of men cannot prevail iigainst a woman of 
Jeannette Lowe's spirit. As soon will a drop of rain 
shatter the plate glass of yonder window. 

Wim. She's as bright as a new dollar, I know that. 
Why, Millie, she hadn't been at the office more ihan 
three mouths, before she knew the prices of goods so 
well, that she used to help me out, whenever an old 
customer came in, and insisted on buying his goods from 
the old man. The old man has forgotten almost every- 
thing he once knew about the grocery business, but it 
wouldn't do to let that appear. Yes, the girl is as 
smart as they make them. 

Mil. And proud as Lucifer. I have quietly given Mrs. 



INTO THE OPEN. 201 

Lowe a little money and some clothes for the children, 
but when I go to Jeannette, she rejects all help and 
incessantly repeats, give me my place at school. When 
yesterday that last hope was shattered, the shock almost 
killed her. If I had not taken her with me last night, 
she would have committed suicide. 

Enter Mrs. Lowe L. B. 

Mrs. L. My child, my child, where is my darling 
child.? She's dead, I know, she is dead. 

Mil. Be calm, madam, Jeannette is with me, and is 
perfectly well. 

Mrs. L. Where is she, where is she? I must see 
her with my own eyes. 

Mil, I'll take you to her in a minute. Father, this 
is Mrs. Lowe, Jeannette's mother. 

Wim, Ah, have a seat madam ; you appear to be 
exhausted (brings her a chair). 

Mrs. L. And indeed, I am. It's a hard time we are 
having, mister. My husband is gone, my daughter, 
Susan, has got married, and if Jennie leaves me, there'll 
be nobody at home, but myself and a lot of hungry 
children. 

Wim. Don't let that trouble you, madam. We'll man- 
age to feed the children, though you had half a dozen. 

Mrs. L. You've just guessed it, mister. There's just 
six of them ; six little ones, and Jennie and Susan. 

Wim. What age are they? 

Mrs. L. Last year they were all odd, and this year 
they are are all even. 



202 INTO THE OPEN. 

Wim. You misunderstand me, madam, I intended to 
ask how old the children are. 

Mrs. L. Last year, they was eleven, nine, seven, five, 
three and one. This year, they are twelve, ten, eight, 
six, four, two and — 

Wim. Yes, yes, I see, I see. {Aside)'. There's 
nothing like a little regularity for keeping account of 
things, (^xlloiid)'. Now, Mildred, suppose you take 
Mrs. Lowe to the pantry, and fix up a bit of something 
for the little ones. (Mildred rings). 

Enter a Maid Servant, tuith luhom Mildred, wldspers^ 

R. B. 

Mrs. L. And I want to see Jennie. 

31il. Come this way, Mrs. Lowe. 

Wim. Keep on the good side of my daughter, Mrs. 
Lowe, and you be well taken care of. 

(Exeunt Mrs. Lowe and Servant M. B. 

Wim. These poor people are of little use as taxpayers, 
but they swell the census, and keep the price of lal)or 
down. But, my God, Mildred, that's going too far. You 
cannot place yourself on a parity with such truck as this. 
And eight children. 

Mil. Besides the four best ones what's dead. I didn't 
invite Mrs. Lowe. 

Wim. No, but as long as you keep the girl in the 
house, you'll have the whole. raggamuffin outfit in your 
back yard from morning until night. 

Mil. They shall not trouble you. 

Wim. This charity work renders you indifferent to 



INTO THE OPEN. 203 

vulgarity, but to me it is absolutely offensive. I'll not 
have it ; at least not in my own house. 

Mil. May I bring Jennie in? 

Wim. No. 

Mil. Yes, I'll bring her in for you to see {caressingly). 
Why, father, you were always fond of pretty women. 

Wim. What do you know about that ? 

Mil. You'll learn to love her as much as I do, for 
Jeanette Lowe, born in a hovel and raised in the slums, 
is one of the most remarkable women I ever met. 

JVim. I didn't know that. 

Enter a Servant with Bayard's card L. B, 

Wim. {taking the card). Bayard. 

Mil. {to Servant). Ask the gentleman to wait a few 
minutes. {Exit Servant L. B. 

Mil. Father, since you have been so good to permit 
me to bring Jeannette in to see you, I am going to tell 
you a secret. 

Wim. If it's another horror, you had belter keep it to 
yourself. 

Mil. {softly). When cousin Bayard comes in, ask him 
what he thinks of Jeannette. 

Wim. What do you mean? 

Mil. He intends to marry Jeannette. 

Wim. Heavens and earth ! Is he as crazy as you ? 
A scrubwoman's brat the wife of my Bayard? 

Mil. That was his opinion, too, once upon a time. 
But he thinks differently now. 

Wim. Does this siren propose to capture all the men 



204 INTO THE OPEN. 

ill the family? First Clem, now Bayard, and me next, I 
suppose ! 

Mil. No, I think she'll conclude with Bayard. 

Wmi. And she, she of courso is despeiately in love 
with him. {Bitterltj). I don't blame her! 

Mil. A smart girl like Jeannetle knows that to let a 
man see you love him, is a sure way to lose him. 

Wi7n. Indeed, and how is a man to know whotlier a 
woman loves him or not? 

Mil. He must first confess his love to htr, and then he 
may ask for hers. 

Wim. You ap[)ear to be well versed in these delicate 
affairs, but — 

3/^7. You keep me so busy, father, tiiat I have no time 
to think of other men. Bayard has i)een in love with the 
girl all along, and l)ut for ber surjoundijigs, would have 
married her along ago. 

Wim. You women have a keen sight. You can see 
thinizs even wlien they do not exist. But Bayard — 
why, Millie, 1 liad a faint hope, that you and he — 

Mil. {interrupting'). Now, there's nn instance, father, 
where you saw something that did not exist. I will now 
tell Bayard that you are ready to receive him, and then 
I will bring you the finest little woman you ever saw. 

{Exit Mil. E. B. 

Wim. I wish she were in Halifax! {Fumes for a min- 
ute, and then as if suddenly recalling another matter.) 
And that's not the worst of it. Bayard has come to tell 
me, my son is a thief ; he prepared me for it last night. 
Thank the Lord, Clem confines himself to pilfering from 



INTO THE OPEN. 205 

me. He's done that before. But this is the straw that 
breaks the camel's back. I'm ready for revolution now 
from the roots up. 

Enter Bayard L. B. 

Wim. (^gruffly). Good morning. How much is it 
(Bay. hands him a slip of paper) 9 Six thousand two hun- 
dred and thirty-six dollars. Charge it to me, How was 
it done? 

Bay. A commonplace swindle, that may occur in any 
business, where a dishonest man has authority to audit 
accounts. About once a month, this man Monmouth sent 
a bill for ten thousand cigars. Clem then entered the 
cigars in the receiving book, although, of course, no 
cigars were received, O. K'd the bill, and the cashier 
paid it. 

Wim. But the house Monmouth represents stands 
high and would not be party to such fraud. 

Bay. Yes, but these cigars are billed by a fictitious 
firm. There the checks were sent, and from there Mon- 
mouth took our checks, cashed them, and divided with 
Clem. 

Wim. When did you make this discovery? 

Bay. Six months ago. 

Wim. Why did you keep it from me? 

Bay. I did not wish to disgrace a son in the eyes of his 
father. But that cowardly assault in the paper deserves 
no mercy. It would have been more than human to 
shield him after that. 

TFi'm* Damn rascal ! 



206 INTO THE OPEN. 

Bay. Two damn rascals. 

Wim. If I could reach that scoundrel, Monmouth, 
without hurting Clem, I'd send him up the road for ten 
years. 

Bay. But you can't do that. Besides, Clem is the 
worse of the two. 

Wim. It's all Monmouth's fault. Such a trick would 
never have entered my boy's head. 

Bay. May be, but I have made up my mind to one 
thing. 

Wim. You need not tell me ; I know what you wish to 
say. Either you or Clem would have to quit. 

Bay. Just so. 

Wim. You're right, you're perfectly right. If a nom- 
inal secretaryship with a salary of three thousand and no 
work, isn't enough for a man, tliere's no room for him 
in the grocery business. I settled all that before you 
came. Clem is going to Europe ; he shall never come 
into the shop again. He's got no mercantile ambition, 
that's the trouble. He would have done better at some 
profession ; in money matters he's weak. 

Bay. Yes, he lacks the faculty of distinguishing be- 
tween mine and thine. He should have been a genius, 
or a politician. ( Takes a newsjmper from his pocket. ) 
You've seen this, I suppose. ^ 

Wim. Yes. 

Bay. A scurvy trick. 

Wim. Why don't you make them retract such slander? 

Bay. I have done so. An apology will appear tliis 
afternoon. But what satisfaction is there in that? 



INTO THE OPEN. 207 

Wim. Yes, it is like lianging a man one day and declar- 
ing liim innocent on the next. But, Bayard, remember, 
Clem is my only son ; do not disgrace him in public. 

Bay. I'll do what I can. But there is something more 
at stake than your son. Clem is the instigator of this 
article which belies and slanders an innocent woman. 
He must retract publicly over his own signature ; if not, 
I shall proclaim him broadcast over the land. 

Wim. I'll attend to that. Bayard. Leave that to me, 
leave that to me. 

Enter Mildred and Jeannette R. B. 

{As Jean, sees Bay., whose back is turned, she hesitates, 
but, on Mildred's urging, enters. Jean, is dressed in a 
delicate white wrapper gown of Mildred's, showing her to 
advantage. ) 

Mil. Father ! {Joins Batard. ) 

Wim. {seated). Ah, good morning, Miss Jennie. 

Jean. Good morning, sir. Good morning, Mr. Mc- 
Gregor. 

Bay. Good morning, Miss Lowe. 

Jean. I hope Miss Wimpleton has apologized for my 
pi^esence. I ought not be here. 

Wim. {Seated. Takes her harid and retains it.) My 
dear young lady, of course I cannot tell where you pre- 
fer to be, but I do know that nowhere would you be more 
welcome. 

Mil. {aside). How these men do lie. First Halifax, 
and now he would like to give her a fatherly kiss. 

Jean. I should have gone without greeting you, Mr. 



208 INTO THE OPEN. 

Wimpleton, but that I did not wish to appear a coward. 
I am the recipient of so much kindness from Miss Wim- 
pleton — 

Mil. Why don't you call me Mildred, as you do when 
we are alone? 

Wim. (still seated and holding her hand). That's right ; 
call her Mildred. 

Jean. I owe her ever3'thing, sir. Even tliis gown I 
wear belongs to her. 

Wim. It is certainly very becoming. I did not know 
Mildred had such pretty clothes. 

Jea7i. (extending her free hand to Bat.). And Mr. Mc- 
Gregor, 1 wish to thtuik you, too, for your kindness. 

Bai/. (^taking her hand). S[)cak not of ray kindness, 
Miss Lowe, si)eak rather of your own cruelty, your 
cruelty towards yourself. Had you not banished me 
from your presence, I might have done much to miiigate 
your suffering. For you have suffered ; Mildred has 
told me all — (Jean, droj^s her eyes) and 1 have eyes to 
see. 

Jean. I would not suffer, if it were your conviction 
and not your charity that prompts you to speak well of 
me. 

Wim. Cheer up, Jennie! Don't you see we are all 
in love with you? 

Jean. I thank you, Mr. Wimpleton. You have all 
been so good to me. Believe me, sir, I shall not always 
be as ungrateful as I have been. 

Wim. Why, my dear cliild, I have never done any- 
thing for you ; but I would like to well enough. If I 
have anything you want, just ask for it and its yours. 



INTO THE OPEN. 209 

Jean. But he who holds my fate in his hands, will not 
speak as you do. 

Wim. Come, Bayard, speak the word. 

Jean. No, not Mr. McGregor. He has done me no 
ill, and can do me no good. Your son, Mr. Wimpleton, 
it is he who made me what I am, and he alone can make 
me what I was, respected in the eyes of the world. 

Wim. And he shall do it before the sun sets. 

Bay. If not, then I — 

Wim. No, that's my business. Stick to the bargain, 
Bayard. Til send for Cleai, straight. Mildred, you 
and Jeanneite take a walk, while I speak a word with 
our friend. Bayard. (^Exeunt Mil. and Jean R. B. 

{Bayard lualks up and down. Wim. seated.) 

Wim, (after a pause). That girl and her mother are 
a queer com'oination. They remind me of a painting I 
once saw, which had for its subject, a rose blooming in 
an ash barrel. (^Another pause.) This Lowe family are 
very common people, arc the}' not? 

Bay. Very ! 

Wim. And the olde?;t girl Jennie, how about her? 

Bay. Well now, Mr. Wimpleton, do you ask that 
question for your sake or for mine? 

Wim. How so? 

Bay. Is it to satisfy your curiosity or to warn me 
against disg-race? 

Wim. That's about it. 

Bay. In reply to that, I can only say, that I shall not 
refuse to pick up a jewel, merely because I happen to 
find it in a heap of rubbish. 

14 



210 INTO THE OPEN. 

Wim. One doesn't find jewels in rubbish. 

Bay. I did. 

Wim. And why in the world does such a jewel of a 
woman want a husband ? 

Bay. For power, possibly for love. 

Wim. For money. 

Bay. That is power. 

Wim. Well, your prospects for wealth are certainly 
fair, but when she finds 3'our present assets somewhat 
inside a hundred thousand, will not this jewel which you 
propose to pick out of the rubbish, decline to sparkle on 
your bosom? 

Bay. If you will pardon my vanity, no. 

Wim. But her family. Bayard ! 

Bay. Trifles. 

Wim. But Jeannette Lowe is the daughter of her father 
and mother. You can not make a silk purse out of a 
sow*s ear. 

Bay. Ancestry and inheritance ! Ye Gods, I have made 
them my special study. You cannot measure men's cal- 
iber by the length of their pedigrees, unless you do it 
backward. The man resultant from ten generations of 
grandparents is apt to be a smaller man, than he who 
has some doubts even about the identity of his own 
father. 

Wim. And j^et blood will tell. 

Bay. Your son, for instance. I beg your pardon. 
Come, now, Mr. Wimpleton, you saw Jeannette, and now 
tell me in all candor, would 3'ou not advise me to take 
the risk? 



INTO THE OPEN. 211 

Wim. Yes, yes, but -I bear Clem's footsteps in the 
ball. Leave me alone with him, but remain in the house 
After I have given the young man a piece of my mind, 
we'll drive to town together. ( Exit Bayard B. B 

Wim. Strange, I did not notice the ^irl before, and 
she was employed at our office for six months. I am 
not surprised Clem took to her: but it seems he ran up 
against a snag this time. Damn Clem, anyhow. If I had 
SIX like him, I'd be in the poor house. I've got the honor 
of being father to the swellest young buck in town, but 
the fun comes high, and I am about sick of it. Ah, here 
he comes. 

Enter Clem L. B. 

Wim, You're just the man I am looking for. Sit down. 
I wish to speak to you. 

Clem. And I wish to speak to you. Do you know 
that our former typewriter, Jennie, spent the night here 
in the house with Mildreth? 
Wim. Yes, I know all about it. 

Clem. I don't believe you do. This girl is not a proper 
person to associate with your daughter. 

Wim. Do you ask me to appoint you guardian over 
Mildred's morals? Strikes me, that we're putting the cart 
before the horse. 

Clem. You're a gullible set, all of you ; when you see 
a girl's pretty face, you can see nothing else ; and Mil- 
dred — 

Wim. No danger, Clem ; your sister is well steeled 
against contamination. She spends half her life trying 



212 INTO THE OPEN. 

to alleviate the misery for which you and such like you 
are responsible. 

Clem. Yes, that's all very well from the standpoint of 
a looker-on. Slumming is a fashionable fad just now. 
But that is altogetlier different from installing one of the 
ilk into your own house. 

Wim. That is a matter you must dispose of with j^our 
sister. She rules this house, and, to my mind, rules it 
well. I've got nothing to say here, and, neither have you. 
Some day, perhaps, you'll save enough money to run an 
establishment of your own, which then you can conduct 
along the lofty line of morals which have always been so 
dear to 3^ou. 

Clem. Very well, since you propose to treat the affair 
as an opera bouffe, I shall be obliged to lake charge of 
the legitimate myself. 

Wim. What 3^ou had better do, is to stop, stop right 
here. Your peculiar transactions have placed you in 
Bayard's power. You change color. 

Clem. Who dares accuse me? 

Wim. Better not say anything about it. The sum is 
charged lo my personal account, and the transaction is 
closed. If an itemized account of the little game would 
give you pleasure. Bayard can give it to you. You 
ought to be asliamed of yourself, Clem. Since you were 
a bo3% I have devoted my life to make a man of yon, 
and in return, I reap nothing but mortification, and fear 
for your next scandal. 

Clem. I've heard that before. What does Bayard 
propose to do? 



INTO THE OPEN. 213 

Wim. He will drop the matter on condition that you 
retract that article in the paper. Don't be a fool, Clem, 
do it, and then go to Europe for a year or two. Clem, 
I trust you will not consider me hard. I have some 
hope, that when you are away from your present asso- 
ciates, you will come to your senses, and recognize, that 
your life will be a failure, unless you turn over a new 
leaf. 

Clem, {aside). First of all I'll get square with that 
little minx. She's the first one that ever gave me 
trouble. I'll teach her what it means to defy Clem 
Wimpleton. 

Wim. What do you say ? 

Clem. I say, that if you are willing to let Bayard dis- 
grace your son, that is your business. My business at 
present consists in removing the halo from a pretentious 
saint. 

Wim. She doesn't look like a bad girl, Clem ; although 
perhaps you ought to know. 

Clem. I know it, and what is more, I am going to 
prove it. Advise Mildred, that I'll be here inside half 
an hour with a witness that will tell her more than she 
will listen to. 

Wim. And you will retract the article ? 

Clem. No. 

Wim. Then Bayard — 

Clem. Never mind Bayard. All you have to do is to 
tell Mildred, and keep the girl in the house until I return. 
I'll be back in ten minutes. 



214 INTO THE OPEN. 

Wim. Damn it, will this never end. 

{Exit Wim. li. B. 

Clem, (sits on a table, one foot on a chair, and lights 
a cigarette). I might as well see the thing through. 
Father knows all, and Bayard dare not open his mouth, 
against my father's wish. If only Monmouth doesn't 
lose his nerve. 

Enter Jeannette B. C. 

Jean, (standing at the entrance; in a low lone of 
voice). Mr. Wimpleton. 

Clem, (loith an air of amused surprise). Well, good 
morning, Jennie. 

Jean, {begins low and slowly). I come a supplicant to 
you, Mr. Wimpleton. I overheard what you said to 
your father, and am here to beg for mercy. Have you 
not punished me enough for my presumption? Was it 
so very wicked, that my hopeful heart misconstrued your 
attention? Will you persecute me to the grave, because 
I loved my honor more than was compatible with your 
desire? Forgive my insolence, Mr. Wimpleton, forget 
the harsh words I uttered : I was thinking only of my- 
self, and could not know what vengeance you would 
wreak upon me for an act which your proud spirit con- 
sidered an affront. How could I know that, Mr. Wim- 
pleton? 

Clem. 1 told you so, myself. 

Jean. But I was ignorant then. 

Clem. No use, Jennie; it's too late now. 

Jean. No, it is not too late. You have but to speak 



INTO THE OPEN. 215 

the word and I am free. Let not my misery appeal to 
you in vain ; speak that word. The chance of fortune 
has played my life into your hands ; you are my only 
witness to testify, as to my conduct at the Forest Inn. 
Heaven knows the depths of humility that cast me here 
at your feet to beg of you the restitution of my good 
name. 1 have never done you any harm. If I was de- 
ceived in the hope that you loved me, will you make me 
an outcast for that .? (^Seizing his hand.) Think of me, 
Clem, not as the woman who denied your unholy suit, 
but think of me as the woman who believed you, when 
you swore that you loved her. 

Clem, (withdrawing his hand). Jennie, I made 
greater exertion to reconcile you, than any six girls I 
ever squabbled with before. You are too headstrong to 
make a docile playmate. It's too late; I can't use you 
now (starts to go). 

Jean. (Horrified: rises.) Use me! 

Clem. Yes, use you. 

(Jean, faints. Clem, regards her prostrate form cyni- 
cally^ then rings for a servant.) 

Enter a Female Servant R. B. 

Clem, (to Servant). The lady has fainted. Take 
her to Miss Mildred. 

(Exeunt Servant loith Jean R. B. 
Clem, Now, I'll fetch Monmouth. (Exit Clem L. B. 

Enter Wimpleton and Bayard B. C. 

Wim. Damn it, Bayard, there is something wrong here. 



216 INTO THE OPEN. 

You extol the girl to the skies, propose to make her your 
wife, while Clem has just gone to fetch evidence, that 
she is a strumpet, and ought to be kicked into the street. 

Bay. Th^nk God, I'm here. 

Wim. Keep your temper, Bayard; make no scene, 
for here they come. 

Enter Clem, and Mon. L. B. 

Clem. {Surprised. Aside): Bayard. {Loud). You 
are not at the otlice at the usual hour. 

Bay. I have been there. 

Cle7n. Father, will you please ask sister to come in? 

Wim. She declines to be present. 

Clem. I don't know as it makes much difference, 
Mr. McGregor will answer as well. Before Mr. Mon- 
mouth speaks, father, I wish it distinctly understood, 
that his presence is prompted by no wish of his ; he 
comes at my special request. 

Bay. For what? 

Clem. I am speaking to my father. 

Bay. 1 beg your pardon. 

Mon. {aside ^oClem.). What's he doing here? 

Clem, {aside to Mo^.). He cuts no figure. Give it to 
her hot, and then we are even with her. 

3fon. {aside to Clem.). He's lia])le to knock me down 
right hiTc on tlie spot. 

Clem, {aside to Mo^s.). Coward! 

Mon. {aside to Clem.). If he touches me I'll shoot 
him like a dog. 

Clem, {aside to Mon. ). Don't play the baby. {Loud) : 



INTO THE OPEN. 217 

Father, Mr. Monmouth came to assist me in purging this 
house of an adventuress, who has tried to inveigle mc, 
and is now about to weave her toils about my sister ; tell 
him what you know, HaL 

Mo7i. (his hand on his hip xoocket). This woman, Jen- 
nie Lowe — 

Bay. (interrupting). One minute. Miss Lowe, I 
believe, is here in the house. 

Wim. She is. 

Bay. In view of the fact, that she is to be arraigned, 
Mr. Wimpieton, do you not deem it proper that she be 
summoned, in order that the charge may be preferred in 
her presence? 

Wim. Certainly. I'll fetch her. (Exit Wm. B. G. 

Bay. Miss Lowe's presence, will, I hope, not embar- 
rass the prosecution. (While Clem, and Monmouth con- 
verse^ Bayard occasionally looks R. G. awaiting the ap- 
pearance of Wim. and Jean. ) 

Mon. (aside to Clem.). I don't like his looks. What 
is there in this for me? 

Glem. (aside to Mon.). Revenge. She turned you 
down as well as she did me. 

Mon. (aside to Clem.). I don't care a snap of my 
finger for that. I'm not going to risk my life for nothing. 
Your sister made sport of me. Told me to call again, 
and said she would leave her answer to my offer of 
marriag^e, with the servant orlrl. And then she o;ave me 
a copy of that damn dictation. 

Glein. (aside to Mon.). Bayard got it from the girl, I 
guess, and gave it to Mildred. Bayard spoilt that for 



218 INTO THE OPEN. 

you. {To himself): That's the first thing Bayard ever 
did that pleased me. 

Mon. {to himself). And Miss Wimpleton is worth a 
hundred thousand in her own name. {Aside to Clem.): 
Perhaps he is in love with 3'our sister himself. 

Clem, {aside to Mon.). Shouldn't wonder. Now get 
even with him. He spoilt it for you, now you spoil it 
for him. 

Mon. {aside to Clem.). I hear Bill has been spirited 
away. And that package of dummy bill heads — 

Cle7n. {aside to Mon.). What do we care for Bill or 
the billheads. Brace up. 

Moil. I am going. Good bye ! {Bayard in the mean- 
time has locked the door by which Clem, and Mon. 
entered). He has locked the door! 

Bay. {returns to where he stood R. C). Yes, sir, if 
either of the gentlemen wish to leave the room, tliey 
can pass in front of me out of this door. 

Clein. Whose house is this? 

Bay. The owner will return presently. 

Enter Wimpleton and Jeannette It. C. 

(Jeannette clad in Mildred's goion. Is timid in the 
presence of the men^ and goes to the forward right of the 
stage.) 

Bay. As counsel for the accused, I beg a few words 
with my client. (Bay. joi/is Jean. Tr/ii7e Bay. a7id Jean. 
converse, Clem, and Mon. are in whispered couversaliori, 
from which it must appear that they cannot agree. Wim. 
looks at one group and then on the other with great iyiter- 



INTO THE OPEN. 219 

est.) (Aside to Jean.): I must speak to you now, Miss 
Lowe, or never. Jeannette, I want you to be my wife. 
You cannot be surprised, Jeannette, you know that I love 
you as well as I do. 

Jemi. Mr. McGregor, do you know what you are 
doing? 

Bay. I know it well. 

Jean, I am a fallen woman in the eyes of the world. 

Bay. What care I for the world ? I want you. Trust 
me Jeannette ; say yes. Time is precious, for these men 
have come to defame you in the presence of your best 
friends. 

Jea7i. (flashing a look of anger at Clem, and Mon.). 
(Aside to Bay.): And you believe in me? 

Bay. I'll stake my life on your honor. I think I can 
clear you ; but whether I can or not, I have faith in you. 
You tremble, Jeannette. Say yes ; be mine. 

Jean. And is my father a thief, Mr. McGregor? 

Bay. No, there stand the thieves. (Jean is about to 
fall about Jiis neck, when he seizes her hands) : O Jeannette, 
but that I must shame these villains before I go, I would 
clasp you in my arms and bear you off, where nothing 
but my passion and my devotion should touch you. Be 
brave, my love; but a minute longer. (Leaves Jean. 
and goes to the rear right of the stage. With effort at self- 
control) : If the gentlemen please, we are ready. 

Mon. (Aside to Ci.^M.) : There's a desperate look in 
his eye. When a man looks like that, he'll stop short of 
nothing. I'm going this minute, and if you implicate 
me with the girl, I'll give the cigar business away. 



220 INTO THE OPEN. 

{Crosses over to j)as5 out in front of Bay, with his hand in 
hispoehet. When he is nearl^w., the latter with a dexter- 
ous movement, wrenches Monmouth's 2yistol from him). 

Bay. You may 8(ay awhile. 

Clem, {to MoN.) Vou're an ass as well as a coward. 
{To the others) : As 1 snid before, Mr. Monmouth is 
here to testify, that on the night of April 12th, at the 
Forest Inn, he and this prl occupied — 

Bay. Clem Wimpleton! 

Wim. Let Mr. Monmouth speak for himself, Clem. 

Bay. Lest I be goaded into an act of violence, I think 
the time has come for me to speak. I'll begin by stating 
that, in regard to Miss Lowe's conduct on said night at 
the Forest Inn, I hereby brand even the slightest insinu- 
ation against her character as a base and malicious lie ! 

Wim. Had you not better let Clem speak? 

Bay. When I have done. But he will hardly wish to 
do so. True it is, that on said night. Miss Lowe com- 
mitted an egregious foil}', when she accepted your 
escort, Clem Wim[)lelon. In her defense let it be said 
that she trusted a man whosti subsequent behavior 
proved that his manhood was defunct. True it is, no 
doubt, that you and the pitiful semblance of man there 
beside you, would gladly have done that whicli you came 
here to say you did. But it is likewise true, that from 
the time j'ou and Miss Lowe entered the dance hall of the 
Forest Inn, until the moment she fled down the staircase 
to escape your villainous clutch, she was not so much as 
one minute out of my sight. (Jean, is startled at this 
revelation.) In disguise of that Mephistopheles, whom 



INTO THE OPEN. 221 

once or twice in jest commanded " hands off! " I was 
ever near, and ready to forestall whatever villainy you 
might attempt. The coachman who with your horses 
took Miss Lowe to her home, and afterward drove both 
of you to a certain wholesale grocery house on Market 
street, was not John Brown, but was Bayard McGregor. 
(Jean, utters a cry of amazement and exultation.) Here's 
a bundle of papers I found in the hack {tJiroics the pack- 
age to Mon. ). That's something of a surprise, isn't it? 
But both of you were so beastly drunk that you couldn't 
tell a white man from a nioorer. You did not know what 
you were doing then, and you cannot recall it now. I 
tell you, Clem Wimpleton, those two hours, from ten to 
twelve, where the most desperate of my existence. You 
owe your life to but the one fact, that I considered you 
my rival. I should have taken her out of the disrepu- 
table atmosphere as soon as she entered, but for my self- 
ish motive to instill her woman's soul with an eternal 
loathino: of the man on whom I knew she at one time 
looked with favor. 

Clem. And what is she to you ? 

Jean. (^Rushes to his arms). 

Bay. My wife. 

Clem. That, of course, I did not know. 

Wim. Nor I. Why Bayard ! That doesn't agree with 
what j'^ou told me. 

Bay. I have her word, Mr. Wimpleton, and to me her 
word is as good as the priest's ceremony. 

Mon. That doesn't look as if he was in love with your 
sister. 



222 INTO THE OPEN. 

CUm. Pop, I'll accept your offer to go to Europe. 
Tell your cashier to get me a letter of credit. 

Bay, And will you pablicly retract the article in the 
paper ? 

CUm. With pleasure. Write it out yourself and sign 
my name to it. Ba3'ard, I ask your pardon. 

Bay. My soul is so complete with joy, that I could 
easily forgive a baser wretch than you. 

Clem. Miss Lowe, can you likewise forgive? 

Jean. No, sir. 

Clem. Then I shall have to go without. 

{Exit Clem. B. C. 

Mon. If the gentlemen please, I wish to confess my 
guilt, and to give the full inside history of the stolen 
cigars. 

Bay. Never mind, Mr. Monmoulh, we know all about 
it. For your satisfaction, however, I will tell you, there 
were no cigars stolen at all. You charged the cigars, we 
paid the cigars, l)ut there were no cigars. 

Wirn. I have likewise, for Clem's sake, concluded not 
to prosecute you, Mr. Monmouth. 

Mon. Thank you. If ever I strike it rich, I'll restore 
my share of the [)luuder. May I go now? (Bayard 
throws him the key.) And my gun, please. (Bayard gives 
him his revolver.) I thank you, gentlemen, I am very 
much obliged to you for letting me down so easy. Mr. 
Wimpleton, kindly excuse me to Miss Mildred. I liad 
permission to call on her this evening, but — 

Wim. Here she comes now {rises to meet Mildred). 



INTO THE OPEN. 223 

Moyi. I don't think you will ever have the pleasure of 
seeing me again. Good-by, everybody. 

{Exit MoN. L. B. 

Enter Mildred, R, B. 

Jean, {on seeing Mildred, rushes to embrace her,) 

Mil. Why, Jeannette Lowe, you told me only yester- 
day, that the man you loved would never marry you. 

Jean, {slowly as if trying to find some a]pt repartee). 
Did I say that? 

Mil. Yes, you did. 

Jean. Well, well, what stupid things we women some- 
times say. 

Mil. Father, what do you say now? 

Wim. I say that you are the best girl a man ever called 
his daughter. But with Bayard's permission, that will 
not prevent me from loving Jeannette, too {kisses Jean.). 
Well, well, we've been traveling so fast, I am out of 
breath. When I get time to think, I shall try to figure 
whether this game leaves me ahead or behind. 

Bay. {Embracing Jean.) I'm ahead. 

Jean. But the big winner am I. 




IN THE OZARKS, 

OR 

PULASKI'S LAKE. 

A COMEDY DRAMA IN 3 ACTS, 

BY 
CHARLES GILDEHAUS. 



Id 



CHARACTERS. 



Pulaski Phelps, alias Trusten Keene. 
Felix Plenty, a Capitalist. 

Jessamine, 1 

> sisters; Nieces to Felix. 
Lilt, j 

Professor Beide, Friend to Felix. 
Alan Idle, married to Jessarnme. 
Archibald Upper, in love with Lily. 
Hannah Phelps, mother of Pulaski. 
Daisy Phelps, her daughter. 
Abe Homespun, a native of the backwoods. 
George, negro body servant to Felix. 
A Notary. 



Act I. An apartment in Plenty's house, in the 
city. Act II. A room in Hannah Phelps' house in 
the country. Act III. Grounds and piazza of Han- 
nah Phelps' house. 

TIME; Present. 



SKETCH OF CHARACTERS. 



Pulaski Phelps: Age, 28. Tall, slender, sinewy. Of 
bright mind, and unflinching purpose. A temper well 
governed, though subject to brief bursts of passion. 
Totally absorbed and carried by the great goal of his 
ambition, his lake and his love. Indifferent to all else. 

Felix Plenty: Age, 60. Large, ruddy, well-pre- 
served. Of practical mind, jovial disposition, and quick 
wit. Fond of worldly enjoyments, proud of his great 
wealth, but arrogant only on provocation. Liberal 
towards his family and friends, familiar towards his 
juniors and inferiors, severe in his views of all that is 
unworthy, and appreciative of merit wherever found. 

Jessamine: Age, 25. Dark, pale, well formed. A 
rich soul, crushed and humiliated by an unworthy alliance. 
Endowed with a pronounced faculty for love, whose pent- 
up passion hurls her rapturously into the arms of the 
strong man, who loves her no less than she loves him. 

Lily: Age, 19. Fair, slight, graceful. A temperament 
frothy, superficial, high-spirited and yet weak. Well 
schooled, quick-witted, gay, thoughtless. Reared in 
luxury. A goldfish in the social swim. A butterfly in 
the best sense of the word. 

Professor Beide: Age, 55. Spare, gray, small. 
Able, unostentatious, and loved by all. The boon 



230 IN THE OZARKS. 

companion of Felix, the confidant and effective friend 
of Jessamine and Pulaski, the beloved tutor of Lily, and 
the respected friend of Archibald. 

Alan Idle: Age, 25. Short, stout, genteelly dis- 
sipated. Unworthy of Jessamine, and unconscious of 
her worth. A base mind, embittered by Felix Plenty's 
severity and contempt. Low and degenerate and 
shrewd. 

Archibald Upper : Age, 22. Slight, fair, well-dressed. 
A society youth of the upper ten. Strictly honorable, 
polite, polished, affable, and harmlessly impressed with 
his own importance. His chief characteristic, an inno- 
cent though ludricous family pride. 

Hannah Phelps : Age, 50. Large. Simple in dress. 
Uneducated, talkative, well-meaning and whole-souled. 
Cheerful, familiar and candid, although somewhat incon- 
siderate, and brisk of speech. 

Daisy Phelps: Age, 16. Fair, strong, rustic. Unso- 
phisticated, good-natured, willful, and, like her brother, 
resolute, courageous and self-possessed. A jewel, but 
unpolished. 

Abe Homespun: Age, 25. Broad-shouldered, uncouth. 
A backwoodsman, untouched by civilization. Simple, 
and in physique like the sycamores of his native haunts. 

George W. Age, 25. A rich man's body-servant. 



ACT I. 



SCENE. A RICHLY FURNISHED APARTMENT IN FeLIX 

Plenty's mansion. A ball in progress. Through a 
WIDE portal C. D. F., the view opens into other 
chambers and halls, brightly illuminated. Occa- 
sional couples pass the open door. Music in the 
distance. 

Enter Felix and Beide, C D, F, 

Fel. This house is not mine to-night, Professor. I've 
turned it over to fifty of the giddiest youngsters that 
ever had parents to buy them fine clothes. My bed- 
chamber looks the green room of the Fifty Blondes Com- 
pany, and smells of cigarettes, as if a junk-shop were 
a-fire. 

Bei. Trusten has returned from the lake and promised 
to report to you this evening. 

Fel. Did he bring Mr. Phelps ? 

Bei. I didn't ask him. But he brings word that the 
lake is done. Mr. Phelps will close the floodgates on the 
night of the next full moon {consults his note-book). 

Fel. Unlaid eggs are uncertain chickens. 



232 IN THE OZARKS. 

Bei, Let me see when that will be. On the 23d, ten 
days from to-day. 

Fel. And then will Mr. Phelps stand on the ridge of 
his embankment, like a little tin god, and command, let 
there be water ! 

Bei. And there'll be water; sixty thousand acres of it. 

Fel. Of big words and feathers many go to a pound. 

Bei. To build a hundred square miles of water in a 
State, that hasn't a puddle big enough to drown a cat — 
Felix Plenty, that is creation. That is more than human, 
that is divine ! 

Fel. Yes, divine and invisible. In that respect, your 
hero, Pulaski Phelps, is just like the Lord; much talked 
about and never seen. Have you met my girls to-night, 
Professor? 

Bei. I just came from Jess. Had quite a serious little 
chat with her. Ah, it's a great pity. 

Fel. Yes, I know that as well as you; but I've quit 
crying over spilt milk. 

Bei. I have always wondered, Felix, how it came, 
that you, a bachelor, adopted these nieces of yours. 

Fel. That's a close question, Professor, but I am not 
ashamed to answer. Jessamine is every inch her mother, 
and her mother was my cousin, and the only woman I 
ever loved. I am old now, Professor, but I was loved, 
dearly loved, and by a woman just like our Jess. It's a 
sad story, but it's quickly told. Her father objected to 
our marriage, bundled her off to Europe, and gave his 
fortune to marry her to a nobleman, who squandered the 
money and abandoned the woman. She died, or killed 



IN THE OZAKKS. 233 

herself, I know not which, and among her papers was 
found a letter addressed to me: " My two little girls, I 
bequeath them to you, Felix: they should have been 
yours. Be to them as a father for my sake" — Qmuse). 
But no more of that. Life is too short to weep. A 
hundred years hence we shall all be bald. 

Bei. You are not doing right by your nieces. Plenty. 
A surfeit of money and go as you please, never yet got a 
girl a good husband. 

Fel. Let them enjoy their lives ; they are young but 
once. If they're not raised right, Professor, it's your 
fault as much as mine. 

Bei. My dear old man, if you expected me to make 
well-balanced women out of two willful girls, whose every 
whim is gratified, whose every prank is applauded by a 
doting old uncle, if you expected that, I have not earned 
my salary, according to your view. 

Fel. You're a pessimist. 

Bei. Look at Jess. 

Fel. Didn't she marry the man she loved? 

Bei. She married the man that loved her money, or 
rather, your money. 

Fel. Did he get it?. Ha, ha. 

Bei. No, and on that account he maltreats her. 

Fel. As man and wife, that's their own affair. Alan 
gets no money from me. If my son-in-law is a man, 
he'll earn his own living or die in the attempt; if my 
son-in-law is nothing but son-in-law, he may sleep in my 
house, and feed at my table, free of charge. To that 
extent he is a privileged character, like the grave- 



234 IN THE OZARKS. 

digger's cow, that may graze in the cemetery. But he 
gets none of my money. 

Bel. Have you ever suggested a divorce? 

Fel. More than once ; but lilie a woman, she hesitates, 
and doesn't know what she wants. 

Bei. It's bound to come. And, to my mind, the 
sooner, the belter. 

Fel. I'll give no more advice. The demand must 
come from her. 

Bei. She dreads the notoriety. 

Fel. Well, you can't make pancakes without breaking 
eggs. Come, Professor, (rises) let us drown our sorrows 
in a tumbler of wine. After all, men and women are but 
a kind of cattle, in respect, that every one must keep 
the flies off with his own tail. 

(^Exeunt Beide and Prof. L. U. E. 

Enter Lily, C. D, F., evening dress. 

Lil. (^iieeps through the draperies of the door, and 
waiting until Bei. and Fel. have disappeared, she crosses 
to the piano, near L. 2d E. and plays). 

Enter Archibald, C. D. F. , evening dress. 

Arc. {looks about carefully, and then on tip toe 
approaches Lil.). 

Lil. Hello! what do you want here? 

Arc. Didn't you call me? 

Lil. No! 

Arc. Oh, I thought you did. Lil, you're the sweet- 



IN THE OZARKS. 235 

est creature on God* earth, and I love — (^seizes one of her 
hands). 

Lil. Let go! I can't play this thing with one hand. 

(Arc. steps hack. Lily continues to play, while Arc. 
regards her admiringly. She turns her face to him in- 
vitingly, and he kisses her very gently. ) 

Lil. {her face still turned up to his). Archibald Upper, 
you are taking liberties. Since the 4th of July, you have 
kissed me at least a hundred times. 

Arc. And in all that time, you have kissed me but 
once, and therefore still owe me ninety-nine, — make it 
even hundred {kisses her, she not ohjectiyig). 

Lil. You are trying your level best to run me in debt. 
First thing I know, you'll declare me bankrupt, and 
apply for a receiver. 

Arc. Are there any other creditors, Lil ? 

Lil. That's what you'd like to know, isn't it? 

Arc. Are there? 

Lil. Well, I wouldn't tell you if there were. 

Arc. You see, if I am the only creditor, I can have 
myself appointed as receiver, and the receiver can do 
with the bankrupt property whatever he pleases. 

Lil. Please, as the court directs. 

Arc. I am going out now to find your uncle {starts). 

Lil. Why, what's the matter? 

Arc, This very minute I am going to ask his consent 
to marry you. 

Lil. No, you are not. 

Arc. Why not? 

Lil. Because you're afraid. 



236 IN THE OZAKKS. 

Arc. Afraid ? My great-grandfather loved the daugh- 
ter of a general, and when the old fire-eater told my 
great-grandfather that he wasn't good enough to marry 
his daughter, then my great-grandfather simply sent 
him a note, stating; "I regret exceedingly, that you 
compel me to marry your daughter against your will." 

Lil. {interested). And did he marry her? 

Arc. Did he? Here I am. 

Lil. Ah, but he was a soldier bold. 

Arc. And I am his lineal descendant. O Lil, you 
girls don't know how desperately a man can love {tries to 
embrace her). 

Lil. No, no, no! Further off, please. Stand over on 
the other side of the piano. 

Arc. How long? 

Lil. Two hours. 

Arc. Two hours? 

Lil. Two minutes. 

Arc. And then may I sit beside you on the bench? 

Lil. Yes. 

Arc. And hold your hand ? 

Lil. Yes, if you promise to behave (as Lil plays, 
Arc. gradually draws nearer, and seats himself beside her 
on the piano bench. He slijys his right arm about her 
tuaist, and she her left arm about his. They continue to 
play very softly^ she with her right, he with his left hand). 

Enter Felix G. D. F. 

Fel. (aside). Well, I'll be— (^omcZ) What are the 
wild waves saying? (Archie s^aris and turns the leaves 
of the music hurriedly.) Well? {Looks at him sternly,) 



IN THE OZARKS. 237 

Arc. Yes, sir ; as well as can be expected. 

Lil. {turning suddenly with a great sigh). Uncle, how 
you scared me I 

Fel. Did I? I suppose that's the reason you held on 
so tight {sits R. ; after an awkward pause). Well, 
Mr. Upper, is there anything you wish to say to me ? 

Arc. Yes, sir, there is. Your niece, Miss Lily, loves 
me, and I wish her to become my wife. Will you give 
her to me? {L.) 

Lil. {rushes to embrace her uncle, E.). Say yes, 
uncle; (i?.) dear, sweet uncle, do say yes. You have 
always been so good to me, and I love you more than my 
life {round his neck). 

Fel. Do you hear that, young man? She loves me 
more than her life. 

Lil. But I love Archie more than my life and your life 
put together. 

Fel. Oh, do you. Not too fast (to Archie). Sit 
down, sit down! (Arc. sits) So; {sits) nothing should 
be done in a hurry excepting catching fleas. {To Arc.) 
Can you suppor'^ a wife.? What are your means of 
subsistence? 

Arc. I'm clerking in the First National Bank for $75 
a month, with the prospects of an early raise. 

Fel. I may guarantee the raise {Bus. foot). 

Arc. Besides, I have a wealthy aunt, and I am her only 
heir. 

Fel, How old is the aunt? 

Arc. {vexed). Nobody knows; she is a maiden aunt. 



238 IN THE OZAKKS. 

Fel. Well, $75 isn't bad for a young fellow of your 
ability. 

Lil. Uncle, you told me more than once, that your papa 
and mamma lived on ten dollars a week when they mar- 
ried. And everything is so much cheaper now. 

Fel. Yes, diamonds, and horses, and tailor-made 
clothes, and — 

Lil. We can rent a little flat, and I can do all my own 
work. And when it comes to clothes, I've got whole 
trunks and closets full of clothes ; enough to last me at 
least — 

Fel. Until Archie's aunt dies. 

Arc. My aunt has documents to show that my ances- 
tors came over on the Mayflower. 

Fel. Has she? Well, I shall think no less of you on 
that account. 

Arc. {rises). Mr. Plenty, I pray you, do not lead me 
to believe that you value nothing in this world but money. 
I'll be candid and confess that it has always been my 
ambition to marry a wealthy girl without a name. If I 
exchange my name for your niece's million, I trust you 
will consider it a profit on both sides (^approaches Lil.). 

Fel. prises). Wait a bit. If she does not get your 
name before you get my million, she'll go without. I 
have my own views on money matters, and I'll herewith 
agree to give you at the end of every year, ten tinoes the 
sum you save out of your own earnings. If you save 
one cent, I'll give you ten cents ; if you save a hundred 
dollars, I'll give you a thousand dollars; if you save a 
million dollars, then — well, then I'll borrow some of 



IN THE OZARKS. 



239 



you. But if you turn out to be a worthless scamp, like 
the fellow who married Lily's sister, your treatment at 
my hands will be just as his. He is married to Jess five 
years, and has the first dollar still to save. You can then 
come here like he, play son-in-law, pure and simple, live 
on me free of charge, and be looked on with contempt 
by the stable boy who blacks your shoes. Fair words 
alone don't feed the cat, Mr. Upper. But, if you can 
come to me at the end of the first year, and say, uncle, 
here is my book, I have saved one hundred dollars out of 
my nine hundred salary, then you will be on the high 
road, not merely to my fortune, but likewise to your 
own happiness (^sits). 

Arc. You speak to me, as if I were a schoolboy. Do 
not forget, that I consider myself a man and your equal. 

Lil. {stops him). Don't Archie, don't. 

Arc. Fully your equal, sir. 

Fel. I am glad of that, glad of that. 

Arc. My forefathers were the founders of this glorious 
country. 

Fel. All my goods are silver and gold, said the boaster, 
even my copper kettles. 

Arc. And framed the constitution, under whose pro- 
tection you have amassed your wealth. 

Fel. I revere them for it, Mr. Upper, and when I 
meet them on the other side, I shall doff my hat, and 
bow to them in sincere reverence. But I cannot com- 
prehend how any merit of yours could have given dis- 
tinction to your forefathers. 



240 



IN THE OZARKS. 



Arc. Two of my ancestors signed the Declaration of 
Independence. 

Fel. He who tickles himself, may laugh when he 
pleases. (X. C). Now listen to me. When I was at 
school, we had a priggish, puffed-up youngster in our 
class, to whom the teacher one day said, that, '' mules, 
mules, make a great fuss about their ancestors having 
been horses." Take that to heart. You may go now 
(X.Z.). 

Lil. (^to Fel.). Bat, uncle, you have forgotten to give 
us your blessing. 

Fel. So. 

Lil. {embraces and kisses him affectionately). 

Fel. Well, I shall take the case under advisement. In 
the meantime, you may kiss him. {Pushes Lil. ivho 
runs to Arc. and kisses him. C.) Tut, tut, tut, that will 
do — before me. 

Arc. (going up). He's a barbarian. 

Lil. He is my dear, good uncle. 

(Exeunt Arc. and Lil. B. D. F. arm in arm. 

Fel. (starting to exit L. U. E.). He can't lay eggs, 
but he can cackle. 

Enter Trusten L, U. E. loith paper in his hand. 

Fel. Hello, Trusten! When did you get back? 
Tru. Just arrived. 
Fel. Did you bring Mr. Phelps? 
Tru. No, sir, Mr. Phelps — 

Fel. (mocking). Mr. Phelps! Trusten, I don't want 
to hear any more of Mr. Phelps, I want to see him. I 



IN THE OZARKS. 241 

have implicit confidence in you and in the professor, but 
the money you get from me for Mr. Phelps represents a 
large sum. It's the same old story ; let the devil into 
the church, and he'll mount the altar. (22.) 

Tru. It will come back to you tenfold. 

Fel. If Mr. Phelps is an honest man. 

Tru, I'll vouch for him. As fast as he acquired the 
land he has sent us the papers; franchises, deeds, titles, 
patents, privileges, — all the documents are securely 
housed in your vaults. 

Fel. But they are all in his name. 

Tru. It was on that condition only, that he revealed 
his plan. Had any of these lands been recorded in your 
name, the plan had become public and therefore impossi- 
ble. He gave me here a new map and several sheets of 
details. 

Fel. Why doesn't he give them to me? 

Tru. He also said, tell Mr. Plenty, that I beg the 
honor of his presence at Lake Pulaski on the 23d, 
between midnight and morning. 

Fel. (^emphatically). We shall be there! And if on 
that day, I do not meet Mr. Phelps in the flesh, I shall 
have nothing more to do with his ghost. Ten days more 
then, that's my limit. 

Tru. The question is not whether you trust Mr. Phelps, 
but whether you trust me. 

Fel. You know that, you know that. Ten years ago I 
found your photograph on a dresser in Jessie's room. 
*' One of my beaux, a schoolmate," she said. I liked 
your face, I sent for you, I raised you, I made you 

16 



242 IN THE OZARKS. 

what you are, the confidant and right hand of a million- 
aire. Trusten Keene, I have had many a rough time 
with men, and as the professor loves to quote, " the 
more I see of men, the better 1 like dogs," but if my 
judgment errs in you, if you turn out a thief, then I 
want to be robbed and swindled out of every cent I've 
got. Yes, Trusten, if ever you deceive me, I'll turn my 
back on mankind, and like Timon of Athens, I'll take to 
the woods, and root for a living, like a hog! No, no, I 
trust you, Trusten {shakes hands). 

{Sounds of music in distance.) 

Fel. There, I must show myself to the young people. 
{starts up, then turns). But why are you not in tlie 
ball-room, among the dancers? 

Tru. I have not been asked, Mr. Plenty. Being your 
clerk, does not endow me with social standing. 

Fel. Social fiddlesticks ! 

Tru. I had no grandmother, Mr. Plenty. 

Fel. Neither had I. If you had worked half as hard 
for one of my girls as you worked for me, you might 
have had either of them. They are both gone now. 

Tru. Both? 

Fel. Yes ; Lil is going to marry Mr. Archibald 
Upper. After the wedding I shall purchase a portrait of 
General Washington, and have it inscribed, " my ancestor 
by marriage." Look me up before you go. 

{Exit C. I). F. 

Enter BEroE, L. U. E. 

Tru. {eagerly seizing Beide's hands). May I see 
her? 



IN THE OZARKS. 243 

Bei. I hate to deny you, Trusten, and yet it were a 
pity to be discovered now. 
Tru. May I see her ? 

Bei. Your agitation will betray you, Trusten, and 
she will discover who you are. 

Tru. Have I not kept my secret from Felix Plenty 
these many years? You, Professor, are the only living 
being who knows that Keene and Phelps are one ; that 
Pulaski ran away from home at the age of twelve, and 
called himself Trusten, to prevent his being found. You, 
who picked me up from the street, gave me food and 
shelter, and sent me to school. My only confidant are 
you. 

Bei. Then keep it so. 

Tru. Fear nothing, I have a head as well as a heart. 
Bei. Then avoid her. 

Tru. No, no, no. Let me see her. I cannot go in 
there. Professor ; I visit Mr. Plenty on business purely, 
and have no social passport. Bring her to me. Profes- 
sor ; let me look into her face, let me hear her voice. 
Grant so much to my famished soul. 
Bei. Wait, wait. 
Tru. I know she is unhappy. 

Bei. In a week, or a month, maybe, you can tell her 
all. 

Tru. And, maybe, never. I promise you, that 
since she is the wife of another, no syllable of my love 
shall pass my lips. I will eat my heart out first. Go, 
go- 

Bei. (shaking his head). I fear, I fear. 



244 IN THE OZARKS. 

Enter Jessamine, L. U. E. 

Jes. {from tvithout to Beide). So I've found you 
at last, have I? {Enters.) Why did you give me the 
slip? — Ah, Mr. Keene ; good evening {extends her 
hand). 

Tru. Good evening, Mrs. Idle. 

Jes. This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise. Won't 3'ou 
come in with us? 

Trii. No, thank you. 

Jes. Professor, did you know that Mr. Keene was my 
first beau? 

Bei. Yes, yes, you told me more than once. 

Jes. We went to school together, and like a courteous 
knight, Mr. Keene carried my books {tuith a sigh)- 
That's a long time ago, isn't it, Mr. Keene? 

Tru. I remember it well. 

Bei. Mr. Keene has just returned from the lake. 

Jes. The Professor has often spoken to me aV)out Mr. 
Phelps, and if everything claimed for that gentleman be 
true, Mr. Phel[)S will some day be a great man. 

Bei. He's a great man now ; {to Trusten) give me 
the map. Ten days hence, Pulaski's Lake will be born 
{hangs the map on an easel, and moves it forward). 
There it is. 

Jes. Beautiful ! And how picturesque, with all these 
hills, and these islands. 

Bei. And it is all yours, Jess. 

Jes. {Looks from one to the other in surprise.) 

Tru. Your uncle owns the majority of the stock. 



IN THE OZARKS. 245 

Jts. How delightful ! 

BqL Suppose you select a site for your summer villa? 

Jes. If I had my choice, I would build here on this 
island, to the right of the bluff (points with her fan). 

Bei. Now you have picked the only spot on the Lake 
you can't have. 

Jes. Why? 

Bei. This island, Mr. Phelps has reserved for himself. 
You participate in the name, however, for he has chris- 
tened it Mount Jessamine. 

Jes. For me? 

Bei. As if you were the only Jessamine. 

Jes. In honor of his wife ? 

Bei. How is that, Trusten? 

Tru. Mr. Phelps is not married. 

Jes. Oh, then he loves some woman by the name of 
Jessamine, and woos her in this true lover's fashion. 
She'll not refuse him now, will she, Professor? 

Bei. She doesn't know that he loves her yet. 

Jes. I'll wager she'll know it as soon as she sees this 
map. 

Bei. All women are not as keen as you. 

Jes. Nor as dull as you suppose they are. Why, here 
it is marked in tiny letters. Mount Jessamine. 

Bei. {adjusting his glasses). So it is. 

Jes. Mr. Keene, you may as well prepare for your 
friend for what is in store for him ; for if his Jessamine 
be human, she'll fly about his neck as soon as she sees 
this and him. 

Bei. (aside; with a sigh). How easily that is said 



246 IN THE OZARKS. 

{walks aside and seats himself near L. 3 E. in meditation^ 
and appears to pay no attention to lohat folloios). 

Jes. Tell me something more about this new world's 
wonder. Where is it, and how was it done? 

Trit. I wish Pulaski Phelps could now talk to you 
instead of Trusteu Keene. If I were to speak as he 
feels, you would think me affected. 

Jes. As his faithful co-worker, it is but natural that 
you share his enthusiasm. 

Tru. {abashed, regards her silently). 

Jes. Well? 

Tru. {loith forced indifference). From this lower dam 
to the proposed upper end of the lake, is a distance 
of thirty miles {points to map). 

Jes. Take my fan. 

Tru. Thank you {takes fan). If there are no errors 
in the survey, we shall have an area of about one 
hundred square miles of water. The only engineering 
found necessary, is this lower dam, and two minor 
embankments constructed here to the right. The river 
and the mountains were furnished free by nature. It 
will appear as you see it here, after the flood-gates 
are closed {takes another map from his pocket). This 
shows you how it looks to-day. 

Jes. {crosses L. seated attractively on the piano bench; 
attends Trusten closely). One would hardly think that 
possible. 

Tru. We know it, Mrs. Idle ; it cannot be otherwise, 
unless, of course, the pressure of the water forces 
an underground passage through some invisible cavern. 



IN THE OZARKS. 247 

But that is unlikely ; every suspicious spot has been 
tested. 

Jes. But tell me, how did the idea originate with Mr. 
Phelps? What was his object? 

Tru. A summer resort, Mrs. Idle! A large body of 
water like this, within a hundred miles of the city will 
attract thousands of people, who now spend their summer 
at the northern lakes or the seaside. We expect to sell 
the water front about the lake for a hundred times what 
we paid for it. 

Bei. There, Trusten, 1 think you have told her about 
enough. 

Jes. I wish to know it all, Professor. Did you meet 
Mr. Phelps there? 

Tru. I did. 

Jes. And you learned his secret ? 

Tru. He could not well keep it from me. (X. R. ) 

Jes. And you helped him ? 

Trii. As best I could. 

Bei. If it had not been for your uncle's money and 
Mr. Keene's diplomacy, Pulaski's Lake would never 
have existed elsewhere than in Mr. Phelps' imagina- 
tion. 

Jes. But the idea, Professor, the creative faculty, 
belongs to Mr. Phelps. 

Bei. Certainly, no one can gainsay that. 

Jes. How uneasy he must have been all the time he 
was testing the feasibility of his thought. I am inter- 
ested in the man. Tell me something more about him, 
Mr. Keene. 



248 IN THE OZARKS. 

Tru. For many months he labored in these hills and 
valleys with his instruments, and at night by the flicker- 
ing camp-fire he made his computations. From day to 
day he added to the area of his lake, and had it failed, 
his life would have gone with it, for the lake had become 
his passion, his one and only love. 

Jes. And now his lake has a rival. 

Tru. No ; but for his Jessamine, Pulaski Phelps could 
not have built his lake. It was his love for her that 
gave him strength and courage. With her image burn- 
ing in his mind he will conquer success. Were I to tell 
you the frightful chasm that yawns between this man 
and the woman he loves, j^ou would say, Pulaski Phelps, 
you are a fool. And he would smile at you, if you did. 
He holds himself a chosen child of God, whose utmost 
ambition will come to pass. There he has built a para- 
dise to the woman of his passion, and there he means to 
possess her, let come what will. 

(Trdstkn crosses to li. Jessamine follows him tvith 
a trace of suspicion and regards him intently. Tru. 
averts his face to hide his emotion. After a pause^ he 
turns and they look upon each other in silence. Neither 
observes the entrance of Alan.) 

Enter Alan G. D. F. Evening dress, intoxicated, a 
cigar in his hand, from which he knocks the ashes as 
he enters, and a silk hat on his head. Stands at the 
entrance and supports himself by holding the portiere. 

Al. (^coming forward L. slightly unsteady). Hello! 
There's the Dutch professor. 



IN THE OZARKS. 249 

Bei. (^approaches Alan; takes himby the sleeve^ moves 
forioard with him and speaks slowly. Alan puffs smoke in 
the professor's face). Mr. Alan Idle, if a Dutchman is 
a man who knows German, then I am a Dutchman, but if 
a Dutchman is a man who knows no English, then you 
are a Dutchman. 

Al. (^ivalks forward and clumsily tries to embrace Jes. ). 

Jes. (^starts, sotto voce.) Drunk! {Involuntarily 
steps to the side o/Tkusten.) 

Al. Put away your maps, Trusten, or somebody'll see 
them. (To Jes.) Come here; I want to see you. {Seizes 
her by the arm^ and rudely takes her L. G. Aside to 
Jes.) Did you ask your uncle for some money, as 1 told 
you? 

Jes. No! 

Al. But I must have it. Unless I can raise a hundred 
by to-morrow my credit will be advertised in the papers. 

Jes. I can't help it. 

Al. Haven't you any pins, bracelets, lockets, rings? 
Anything will do. 

Jes. {showing her bare fingers). You have taken 
them all. 

Al. Have I? H'm. There's Trusten Keene. He's 
rich. Play soft on him. Tell him you're in trouble, 
and he'll loan you some. 

Jes. {Regards him with scorn.) 

Al. Very well, then, we'll have ourselves advertised. I 
can stand it, if you can. {Turns to go out.) Say, Pro- 
fessor, what do you think of my wife? She's the best 
looking woman in the whole crowd. And those clothes 



250 IN THE OZARKS. 

set her off well. But it isn't all clothes, is it, Jess? 

Come, there's the music ; let's dance this waltz. {As he 

unsteadily approaches Jess., Trusten steps between.) 

Hello, Trusten, coming between man and wife, are you? 

Well, I don*t care ; then you go dance with her. I'm tired, 

anyhow. I'll go with the Professor, and crack another 

bottle. (Ta/ces Beide's arm. Turning to T\^\^.) Take 

her, and have all the fun you want. I'm liberal. Enjoy 

yourself. And while you are dancing, don't forget, you've 

■ got your arm around the finest woman in the world. 

Tru. (Takes J Es.' hand.) Good night. (Starts to go.) 

Bei, Trusten ! 

Al. Why don't you let him have a good time with 
Jessie? 

Bei. Alan, you take Trusten out to crack your bottle. 
To tell the truth, I have had about as much as I can 
stand. 

Al. Want to lie down, eh? I thouglit you were 
acting kind of funny. Come along, Trusten; just 
as leave drink with you as anybody else. (Takes 
Trusten's arm. As they are near the exit L. U. 
E. Alan turns.) And one thing more. Professor. 
When you meet that old skinflint, Felix Plenty, you tell 
him, I've got something to sell him ; cheap for cash. 
You just tell him, it's a thousand dollars, or the lake 
don't go. (Exeunt. Al. a^rf Trus. L. U. E. 

Jes. (Breaks doivn at the table R. G. her face in her 
hands., sobbing violently.) 

Bei. Patience, patience, my child. This shall not con- 
tinue much longer. 



IN THE OZARKS. 251 

Jes. {Herxely). By heaven, I will not suffer it one day 
more ! For years, 1 have endured my shame in silence, 
and now his loose tongue, shouts it to the winds. My 
life is one great lie ! I must sing, laugh and be merry, 
must appear an object of envy to the world, when in 
truth, I am the most pitiful thing that lives. QPiteously). 
If my father and mother lived, this could not have hap- 
pened. (X. L.) 

Bei. My dear Jess, from what I know of your dispo- 
sition, you would have married Alan Idle, although ten 
fathers and mothers had advised you to the contrary. 

Jes. (lamenting). What can a girl of eighteen know 
about men? I'll not blame you nor uncle nor anybody ; 
only myself and fate. (Angrily). To insult me here, in 
the presence of Mr. Keene, to make me cheap in the 
eyes of a man who respects me, to pass me, his wife, over 
to another man like a paid woman. (^Resolutely). But I 
am glad of it, glad of it. It gives me courage to do that, 
which, until now, I did not have the heart to do. I shall 
leave him. The law shall rid me of him. I shall never 
look upon him again (after a pause ^ to the professor 
gently). I'll go with you to the lake, and if by some 
chance, I drown in it, Pulaski Phelps' good fortune will 
also be mine (crosses R.). 

Bei. I don't approve of the drowning, Jess ; when one 
is dead, it's for a long time. But, in the other matter, 
I'll help you all I can. 

Jes. Why did not fate make me the wife of such a man 
as Pulaski Phelps .? Since I heard Mr. Keene speak of 
him, my life appears one insignificant patchwork of trifles. 



262 IN THE OZAKKS. 

I want to meet this Mr. Phelps, and the woman fortunate 
enough to be so loved, and by such a man. Do you 
know this namesake of mine, whom he hopes to win as 
his wife? 

Bei, I know her well. 

Jes. Is she homel}" or handsome, short or tall, dull or 
bright enough to comprehend the greatness of his soul? 
But, no matter; she is to be his Jessamine. For her, he, 
like a god, creates a world! {Up C.) 

Enter Trusten, L. U. E. 

You must acquaint me with this girl, Professor. If 
the man loves her, he shall have her {observes Trusten). 
Good night! {Exit Jes. O. D. F. 

Bei. {down C). She doesn't know what she is talking 
about. 

Tru. Great God, Professor, can this be true? 

Bei. Slowly, slowly, my boy ; I am afraid we are 
traveling too fast. 

Tru. She said Pulaski Phelps shall have his Jessa- 
mine. 

Bei. Theoretically. 

Tru. I'll find her, and tell her who I am {starts up). 

Bei. Fool! It isn't you, she is after. It is all figment 
of her mind. When she finds who you are, I am afraid 
she will be mightily disappointed. 

Tru. What shall I do? 

Bei. Nothing. Keep cool, and avoid her You have 
talked too much already. Did you pump Alan ? What 
did he say. 

Tru. He muttered some incoherent nonsense about 



IN THE OZARKS. 263 

the lake ; I paid no attention ; I was thinking of Jessa- 
mine. Great God ! 

Bei. What did you do with Alan? 

Tru. I was tempted to crush the life out of the ribald 
cur. 

Bei. But what did you do with him ? 

Tru, A colored man took him away from me. Said 
he would give him a hot bath, and then he'd be as good 
as ever. 

Bei. That isn't much. 

Tru. {still walking restlessly). That such a man should 
possess such a woman. Think of it, Professor, think 
what that means. Ah, but you cannot, for you are old, 
and at your age the blood no longer burns ! 

Bei. He doesn't seem to care much for her. 

Tru. {vehemently). No! and I would crawl to the 
earth's end for another touch of her hand, — I loved her 
ever since she was a little girl {sits L.). 

Bei, And when the little girl grew up to be a big girl, 
she mnrried Alan Idle. Yes, it was a great pity (i?.). 

Tru. {rising abruptly). Great God, what shall I do? 

Bei. You heard how she feels towards the man who is 
building the lake? 

Tru, Yes, yes, yes! 

Bei. Then build the lake, and leave the rest to time, — 
and to me. If I have any influence in this family, and I 
think I have, then Jessamine may not remain the wife 
of Alan Idle, forever. 

Tru. {veliemeyitly). She may never be mine, but, I 
swear it, Alan Idle shall never lay hands on her again ! 



254 



IN THE OZAEKS. 



Bei. You have no right — 

Tru. I have no right, but Alan Idle shall never lay 
hands on her again ! 

Enter Felix C. D. F. After Felix enters^ Trusten is 
seated at the t&ble. M. C. 

Fel. What's the matter? (0.) 

Bei. We were speaking of Alan. 

Fel. Well, what of him? 

Bei. He was here, and drunk. 

Fel. You startle me ; I thought you were going to say, 
sober. 

Bei. In his rambling he mentioned the lake. Said, he 
had something to sell you for a thousand dollars. 

Fel. How is that, Trusten ? 

Trri. Nonsense. He knows nothing worth knowing. 

Fel. He is a knave, Trusten, l)ut no fool. 

Tru. The rankest fool on earth. 

Bei. His last words were: "Tell Uncle Felix it's a 
thousand dollars or the lake don't go." 

Fel. That looks like him. But I'll not give him the 
satisfaction of blackmailing me. How do you stand with 
him, Trusten? What arc 3'ou laughing at. Professor? 

Bei. {chuckles). Nothing. 

Fel. You buy him off, Trusten ; you'll get it cheaper. 

Tr^i. There's nothing to buy. 

Fel. It is worth something to know that. Let me think 
a minute (goes to L. and sits). A wise man does at first 
what a fool must do at last. 

Tru. But for the faint possibility of an underground 
escape, I'd stake my life on the lake. 



IN THE OZARKS. 266 

Fel. A dog's kennel is not the place to keep a sausage. 
Alan evidently knows something, and it is asking too 
much of the cat, that she should sit by the milk and not 
lap it. 

Tru. What can he do? 

Fel. Fools ask, what's o'clock? A wise man knows 
his time {after a pause). Why, of course. Now, my 
friends, listen, and don't you ever say old Felix Plenty 
hasn't got a good head. Trusten and I must quarrel, 
and the Professor must find Alan, and place him behind 
the portiere to overhear us. 

Bel. On what subject could you two quarrel? 

Fel. Trusten is to ask me for the hand of my niece. 

Tru. Your niece? 

Fel. Yes, my niece. And in reply, I'll give you such 
a dressing down for your impudence, that even Alan will 
take pity on you. I shall score you most unmercifully, 
young man, and when, for a finale, I set my foot upon the 
viper, that haS/Crawled into my bosom to steal away my 
child, I shall leave the room like King Henry after he 
gets through with Hotspur. That will be your cue to 
storm and swear revenge. This will draw Alan from his 
hiding-place, and you will have no difficulty in hatching 
a little plot, that is to beat me out of my lake. Why it's 
as easy as watering stock. Now, lively. Professor, I'll 
teach the scamp, it's a bold mouse that makes her nest 
in the cat's ear. When you are ready, trip on a rug, or 
make any other sort of noise, and we'll know it is time 
to begin. (Exit Beide L. U. E. 

I've got a large fortune in this venture, Trusten, and 



256 IN THE OZARKS. 

cannot now stop for a paltry sum. You must pluck out 
the heart of his secret. One rotten egg spoils the whole 
pudding. Buy him as cheap as you can, but buy him. 
Here is a handful to start him (offei's him a roll of 
bills). 

Tru. Never mind, I have some. 

Fel. Now sit down there, {B.) and study out your part. 
Mine is ready. (X.). I am curious to see how skill- 
fully you can play the lover, Trusten. Make it good 
and hot. Tell me that you love my niece more than 
your life, and tliat you will drown yournelf unless I let 
you have her. These phrases are shop-worn, 1 know, 
but no matter ; every generation will use them over and 
over again. It will do Alan good to hear, that I have 
no more use for j^ou, than I have for him. {A noise in 
the hall.) There they are! Now beg for Lily as hard 
as you know how. 

Tru. (^serious). Mr. Plenty, I love your niece, and 
have come here to seek your approval. 

Fel. Young man — 

Tru. Before you speak, let me assure you, that I am 
resolved to win her for my wife ; with your consent, if I 
can ; without your consent, if I must. 

Fel. Young man — 

Tru. Mine is not the fleeting appetite of a boy, but the 
constant and matured passion of a man. From the 
briglit star that my j'outh worshipped from afar, she has 
developed into the full ideal, the possession of which 
alone can make my life worth living. I have worked for 
3^ou, worked hard; len years have I been in your em- 



IN THE OZARKS. 257 

ploy and you have paid me like a prince. You have con- 
fided in me, and I have never betrayed your confidence ; 
you have intrusted me with the great affairs of your 
business, and I have proven worthy of the trust. 

Fel. (^seated L. with his back to Trusten; aside). 
Wiiy in the devil didn't he ask for her before that damn 
little " Mayflower " got her. 

Tru. I have struggled for success and power regard- 
less of my fellowman, in order to be able to surround 
my soul's idol with every delight and luxury of life. 

Fel. {brushes a tear from his eye; aside). He's a 
man after my own heart. I hate to do it, and yet I 
must. 

Tru. Whatever I did, I did it solely, that some day I 
might come to you and say, Mr. Plenty, give me your 
child. I will work for her, watch for her, pray for her, 
make her the envy of every one she meets. Give me 
your answer. Will you help me to win your niece, or 
shall I number you among my foes, and win her against 
your will? 

Fel. {aside). It's all sham anyway ; {aloud) Young 
man, your impudence dumfounds me. You have no 
claim on me whatsoever. I paid you for all the work you 
did for me, and paid you well. I have raised your 
wages oftener than you dared ask for it, until now your 
salary is greater than the governors of three States put 
together. You carry the keys to my private safes, Mr. 
Keene, but these same keys do not unlock the sanctuary 
of my home. Do you think I have amassed a fortune in 
order to cast my child away upon an upstart from the 

17 



258 



IN THE OZARKS. 



slums? No, sir ; my niece is to be the wife of Archibald 
Upper, a scion of one of the first families in the land. 
Two of his ancestors signed the Declaration of Independ- 
ence, and a third was kennel-keeper of George Washing- 
ton's hounds. I married my Jess to the laziest loafer 
that stands on two feet (aside), that for Mr. Alan 
(aloud), and I want no more such unancestored fellows 
as you are. 

Trii. Mr. Plenty — 

Fel. Enough, sir! You stand there a self-convicted 
hypocrite ; your seeming service in my behalf was but 
a mask to screen a sinister ambition for my wealth. 
Call at my office in the morning, and receive your pay 
in full to date. I shall set my foot upon the viper that 
crawled into my bosom to steal away my child. 

{Exit Felix C. D. F. 

Enter Alan, L. U. E., sits on the piano bench unseen 

by TiiusTEN. 

Tru. (facing C. D. F.) My pay in full. Yes, I shall 
get my pay in full and more too. I can make a beggar 
of you, Felix Plenty. 

Al. (Plays on the piano, " Over the Fence is Out " ; 
turns to Trusten, who now likeivise faces him.) How do 
you feel? 

Tru. What's that to you? 

Al. Oh, nothing, only I've been there myself. 

Tru. You've been eavesdropping, have you? 

Al. You hollered so loud, I couldn't help hearing. 

Tru. I'll have her if I go to hell for it ! Do you bear 



IN THE OZAEKS. 259 

me, Alan, sbe*s mine and I'll bave her {dutches Alan 
by the throat). Do you hear me, she is mine, mine! . 

AL Let go! (Shakes him off.) That's not the old 
man's throat you've got hold of. 

Tru. You are right, you are right. {Walks excitedly 
up and down. Confused with his thoughts of Jess ; 
speaks somewhat absent-mindedly. ) 

Al. 1 hate him as much as you do. He is a miserable 
miser. Had you come to me, I could have told you 
what would happen, when he found you were after his 
money. I've been in the family for five years, and 
haven't seen the first dollar of his money yet. If he 
wasn't expected to die some day, I couldn't get enough 
credit to buy a neck-tie. 

Tru. I don't want his money. 

Al. That's where we differ, I do. Then what would 
you give for the girl ? 

Tru. My life. 

Al. H'm. I can't spend that. I mean in dollars and 
cents. 

Tru. I don't understand. 

Al. Well, then, will you give a thousand dollars to get 
even with him. {Intensely.) 

Tru. Yes. 

Al. Will you give five ? 

Tru. Yq^. 

Al. Ten? 

Tru. No. 

Al. {aside). I went too fast. I'll try over again. 
{Aloud) Will you give five ? 



260 IN THE OZARKS. 

Tru. Yes. 

Al. Six? 

Tru. No. 

Al. {aside). He's not drunk enough {Aloud). 
Five, then? 

Tru. I said five. 

Al. It's a bargain. {Offers his hand to Trusten, 
who takes it after a moment's hesitation. Al. ivalks up to 
C. D. F. to see whether anyone is near. In a confidential 
tone). Will lie be permitted to flood any land but bis 
own? 

Tru. No. 

Al. What will stop bim? 

Tru. Injunction. 

Al. You are sure of that? 

Tru. No question. 

Al. Well, then, I can furnish the title to forty acres 
of land, without which that mud hole of his in the moun- 
tains will be knocked into a cocked hat. 

Tru. I don't believe it. The rights and titles to every 
foot of that land are locked in our vaults. 

Al. I don't know anything about his vaults. He 
hasn't given me the combination. 

Tru. Well, my offer stands ; forty acres, five thousand 
dollars. 

Al. You ought to make it ten, Trusten, for I know 
you'll squeeze the old man for at least fifty. 

Tru. {sarcastically). I may choose to make him a 
present of it. 

Al. {snickers.) Yes, so you might. 



IN THE OZARKS. 261 

Tru. Go ahead. What am I to do? 

Al. {low and confidential.) Get me five thousand in 
cash, large bills, and the forty acres are yours. One 
thousand I must have before I start, the balance when I 
deliver the deed. 

Tru. When? 

Al. To-morrow noon. 

Tru. Where? 

Al. At the lake. 

Tru. I can't be at the lake before the twenty-third ; 
to-day's the thirteenth. 

Al. I'll wait, then, until the twenty-third. 

Tru. I will be there. 

Al. On your honor ? 

Tru. On my honor. (Al. offers Jiis hand, Tru. re- 
jects it, Al. shakes his own other hand.) 

{Exit Al. L. U. E. 

Enter Felix G. D. F. 

Fel. {coming down to the R. o/Tru.). I beg your par- 
don, Trusten, but you know it was all in fun {extends 
his hand, luhich Trusten takes). 

Tru. {slowly). Yes, I know {ivith quivering voice and 
tioitchiyig lip), it was all in fun. 

(Felix regards Trusten with surprise. The latter 
turns to one side {L.) his face exhibiting keen anguish. 
Retains Felix' hand. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT II. 



SCENE. — The large living room of Hannah Phelps' 

HOUSE, located ON THE SIDE OF A HILL NEAR THE HANK OF 

THE Pebble river. The furnishing substantial and sim- 
ple. Walls decorated with skins, antlers, stuffed 

BIRDS and fishes, NETS, RODS, GUNS, AND OTHER LIKE PARA- 
PHERNALIA. On the right, a china closet and an easy 

CHAIR. A latticed WINDOW IN CENTER OF FLAT. DoORS 

IN R. F. AND L. U. E. In the center of the room, a 

HEAVY UNPOLISHED OAK TABLE ; TO THE RIGHT OF THE TABLE, 
A BENCH. In the LEFT NEAR FRONT, A LARGE, MODERN 
ROLLER-TOP DESK, AND REVOLVING CHAIR, IN PRONOUNCED 
CONTRAST TO THE REST OF THE FURNISHINGS, WHICH ARE OLD- 
FASHIONED. R. D. F. LEADS INTO THE OPEN ; L. U. E. INTO 

KITCHEN. Strings of dried apples under the ceiling. 
Hannah and Alan. 

Al. 1 have offered you a good fat price for your land, 
Mrs. Phelps, but I'll not buy if you mention it to a soul 
before the deed is signed. I will be back in half an hour 
with the deed and the notary. 

Han. And the money, young feller. 

Al. Sure. {Exit Alan R. D. F. 



IN THE OZARKS. 263 

Ha7i. {calls L. U. E.). Daisy, keep up a good fire, 
and chase the chickens out of the kitchen. {Down L.^ 
I declare, that girl is never satisfied unless she is feeding 
something. That's a good price for the land. Don't 
want nothing said about it, eh? Well, I'll just kinder 
feel my way anyhow. May be the price of land is riz. 

Enter B. D. F. Felix, Beide, Archie, Jessamine, Lily, 
and George. All attired in outing costume. Felix in 
corduroy y carrying a gun. 

Fel. {stamping gun). Here we are! 

Han. Welcome you are, Mr. Plenty. 

Fel. George, tell the drivers to go ahead. Let them 
pitch the camp on the gravel-bar at the foot of Goat 
Bluff. We'll be there to-morrow: to-night we'll stop 
here. 

Geo. Yes, sir. {Exit George E. D. F. 

Fel. Mrs. Hannah, I've brought my girls with me. 
This is Jessamine, and this is Lily. {The tvomen greet 
Hannah.) While we men are in the woods, you can keep 
the girls here and teach them something. They know 
nothing about housekeeping: can't tell a squash from a 
pumpkin. Had no mother, you know. 

Jes. Professor, where is Mr. Phelps? 

Bei. There's his mother, ask her. 

Jes. Does he resemble her? 

Bei. He is younger. 

Jes. How odd. 

Fel. {sits at B. of table). Where is Daisy, Mrs. Han- 
nah.? I brought her a new saddle. 



264 IN THE OZAEKS. 

Ean. (/>.)• ^^ ^^'9 one of them one-sicUd affairs, she 
won't wear it. She rides like a clothespin, one leg on 
each side of her horse. 

Lil. (ioARc). Look at all those queer bugs strung 
up under the ceiling. 

Ean. Them's no bugs, child; them's dried apples. 

Fel. A la Yankee. Wholesome food, too; purifies the 
blood. 

Han. You shall have them for every meal as long as 
you are here. 

Fel. Thank you. To-morrow at daybreak we go into 
camp {lights a cigar). 

Bei. Suppose we have a little game before dinner? 

Fel. Good idea. Get the cards and chips {the profes- 
sor brings a jxick of 32 cards and chips). Is there any 
bottled beer in the house, Mrs. Hannah? 

Ilaji. I knew you were coming, Mr. Plenty. There's 
six bottles hanging by their necks in the well. 

Fel. Smart woman, you are, Mrs. Hannah. If we 
were twenty 3'ears younger, I'd set up to you. You are 
the kind of a woman that makes a man live long. 

Han. There's older fools than us been getting 
married. 

Filter Daisy L. U. F. 

Dai. {at the door). Get out of there, you three legged 
thief. 

Han. What's he been doing? 

Dai. Fido's done chawed the end off one of the 
cheese bags, you hung out the window. 

{Exit Daisy L. U. E. 



IN THE OZARKS. 265 

Fel. Come in here ! 
Enter Daisy L. U. E. carrying a bunch of v:ildilov:ers. 

Fel. Hello, Daisy ! Come and give Uncle Felix a kiss. 
(Takes Daisy on his kjiee, 7)?<^s his arm about her icaist 
and kisses her.) 

Han. Daisy is getting too large to be kissing men. 

Fel. Never too old to kiss Uncle Felix, are you 
Daisy? 

Dai. I'm willing, as long as Abe don't care. 

Fel. Who is Abe? 

Han. He is a big good-for-nothing fellow, that would 
rather get up at three in the morning to look for a 
flock of wild turkeys, than get up at six and chop wood. 

Dai. He can lick any fellow in the county. 

Jes. Does he like to fight? 

Dai. He's got to. 

Jes. Why? 

Dai. Cause every time a fresh gang of wood choppers 
comes through here, the boys tell them that Abe's 
the best man in the State ; and then some sixfooter 
that's got more spunk than sense, gets a licking. There's 
no man living can stand up before Abe Homespun. 

Han. That will do, Daisy. Take the ladies out, and 
show them around. 

Dai. Come on. I'll let you ride my horse. 

Fel. Be careful not to roll down the bluff into the 
river. (Exeunt Jes., Lil. R. D. and pass icindoiv. 

Fel. (to Arc. ivho is about to Join the women). Heigh! 
Archie, you stay (points to the table). Two can't play. 
Yes, I know it's pretty hard on you. You would rather 



266 



IN THE OZAEKS. 



go with the girls than play cards. But, about two weeks 
^nOj you told me, it was your ambition to become 
my son-in-law, and now you must accept the con- 
sequences. This is one of them ; by-and-by there 
may be others. (Bel, Fel. and Arc. sit about the table 

to play. 

B 



F 



{To Han.) Mrs. Hannah, will you see whether the 
beer is cold? (To Bei. and Arc.) Cut! {They cut.) 
Archie deals. 

Arc. {deals; 10 cards to each hand and 2 blind). 
Have you any buttermilk, Mrs. Phelps? 

Han. I'll bring you some. {Exit. Han. L. U. E. 

Fel. Why don't you order champagne? 

Arc. Had enough of that for a while. 

Fel. {to Arc). Put your chips on your left where 
they belong. 

Arc. {shoving his chijjs). The professor isn't going to 
steal them. 

Bei. Archie, my bo}', love your neighbor, but don't 
pull down the fence. 

Enter Hannah L. U. E. {Brings tivo bottles of beer, and 
a pitcher of buttermilk. Pours milk for Arc. and 



IN THE OZARKS. 267 

beer for the others. She will have ample time to do this 
as the bidding and accepting is to proceed deliberately. 

Bei. Is it ten? 

Fel. Always. 

B&i. Twenty? 

Fel. Certainly. 

Bei. Twenty-four? 

Fel. Yes, sir. 

Bei. Thirty. 

Fel. Why not? 

Bei. Forty? 

Fel. Pass. 

Arc. Pass. 

Bei. Clubs. Your lead, Plenty. 

Han, Mr. Plenty, what's such land as this round here 
worth ? 

Fel. {to Bei.). Wait a minute. What did you say, 
Mrs. Hannah? (Han. questioning confuses Fel. The 
game proceeds: Fel. takes the first three tricks, Bei. 
the balance.) 

Han. What's such land as this round here worth? 

Fel. What land? 

Han. This here land on the hills around here. 

Fel. Isn't worth much; the big wood is all cut out. 

Han. Would you give five dollars an acre for any of 
it? 

Fel. No, ma'am ; I bought thousands of acres of it on 
the other side for two dollars. Is there any for sale round 
here ? 



268 IN THE OZARKS. 

Han. None's I know of. 

Fel. Damn it, Archie, why didn't you play that ten spot 

on the other trick? (^As he says this he strikes the table 

with his fist^ and taps the fatal card violently with his 

forefinger.) He's won it now; you ought to pay for 

both. 

Bei. Forty-eight, please. 

Arc. Oh, I'll never learn this Dutch game. 

Bei. My boy, Skat is the finest game on cartli intakes 
the chips the others have j^assed to him). 

Fel. {dealing). Especially with the cards you always 
get. 

Bei. lie plays best wlio wins {to Arc). Great game, 
my boy ; whist and poker rolled into one. 

Enter Abe E. D. F. 

Abe. (Jroni loithout at window). Is Mr. Plenty in 
here? 

Ilan. That's Abe. Come in here. 

Enter Abe. 

Abe. {at door). Good morning, Mrs. Hannah. 

Han. Good morning. There's Mr. Plenty. 

Fel. Well, sir? 

Abe. I'm the man what brought your ice down from 
Summersville. 

Fel. I don't want it here. Our camp is at Goat 
Bluff. Take it there. 

Abe. I can't, Mr. Plenty, it's melted. 

Fel. Melted? 



IN THE OZARKS. 269 

Abe. Yes, sir. You see, the commissary boat couldn't 
get over the shoals, so your men hired me to haul the ice 
overland by wagon. Been on the way 18 hours, and as 
the weather is kind'er warm, there was no ice left, when 
I got here, — but I brought you two turkeys and a 
jack-salmon. 

{Exit Arc. quietly B. D. F. 

Han. That's why the ice got thawed. Just as like he 
went prowling after the birds, and left his wagon stand 
in the sun. 

Bei. to Fel. Come here, and play your hand. I'm not 
sitting here to catch flies. There's plenty more jack- 
salmon in the Pebble, but there's not another hand like 
this in the whole pack. 

Fel. Where's your third man? 

Bei. {calling). Mr. Upper, O Mr. Upper! 

{Exit Bei. R. D. F. holding his cards. 

Fel. One hair of a woman's head pulls stronger than 
ten yoke of oxen. {To Abe). Weil, what are you wait- 
ing for? 

Abe. For my money ; four dollars. 

Fel. What for? 
* Abe, Hauling the ice. 

Fel. No, sir ; you get no money from me for hauling 
ice. 

Abe. Then may be, you'll give me four dollars for a 
telegram which the operator gave me as I crossed the 
track at the station. 

Fel. That depends. Some telegrams are worth four 
dollars, and then again I've had some, that were worth a 



270 IN THE OZARKS. 

darn sight less than nothing {takes telegram from Abe, 
goes to L. C.and opens it with a penknife). Good news 
for Jess. I'll find her. (To Abe). Here's your money. 
This one is worth it. {Exit Fel. R. D. F. 

Han. Now Abe, take them birds in the yard and pick 
'em. (Abe hesitates). If you can find Daisy you can 
tell her to help. 

Abe. {brightening). All right, Hannah. 

{Exit Abe R. D. F. 

Han. And mind you, it's no spoonin I want; I want 
them birds picked. 

Abe. {from loithout, at loindoiu). All right, we'll 
pick 'em. 

Enter Jes. L. U. E. 

Jes. Was that Mr. Phelps ? 

Han. Lord, no. Where's the rest of you ? 

Jes. They have gone down to the river. You see, 
they are all young folks, and I am an old married 
woman. 

Han. Oh, yes; you're the one that's got the good-for- 
nothin husband. I've heard tell of him. What's 
your name? 

Jes. Call me. Jessamine. Can I help you, Mrs. 
Phelps? You know, uncle wishes me to learn something, 
and I suppose you are ver}^ busy. 

Han. Not so very busy. But, if you are aching to do 
something, there's a dish pan of turnips on the kitchen 
table. {Exit Jes. L. U. E. 

There's a knife on the window-sill. {During this 



IN THE OZARKS. ' 271 

scene Han. is occupied clearing the table and cutting shelf 
paper for the chain closet. ) 

Enter Jes. with a dish of turnips. 

Han. Sit down on that bench and slice them. (Jes. 
sits and begins to cut the turnips.) You'll spoil your new 
dress ; wait a minute. (Han. ties an apron to Jes. and 
tucks Jes.* sleeves up above the elbow. ^ There, that's more 
like. You have got a pretty large arm, for a woman 
that's never worked. 

Jes. That comes from play-work, Mrs. Phelps. (Han, 
looks puzzled.) Don't know what that means, do you? 

Han. Play-work ? Never heard of it before. 

Jes. Horseback riding, for instance, and tennis and 
golf and fencing. 

Han. Fencing? 

Jes. Indeed. 

Han. That's no decent work for a woman. Out here 
the men folks build the fences. Got any children ? 

Jes. {seriously). No, Ma'am. 

Han. Well, don't let that worry you. You are better 
off without 'em. They're lots of bother. 

Jes. Is your son, Mr. Pulaski Phelps, at home? 

Han. He'll be here by sundown, they say. That's 
his desk over yonder. High-toned, isn't it? 

Jes. I'm sure it's big enough. 

Han. (goes to the desk). Locks all by itself. He just 
slams down the lid, and the whole fixing's locked, 
drawers and every thing. And the chair just spins 
round and round. Look ! (Sits in chair and spins.) 



272 IN THE OZARKS. 

Jes. Mrs. Phelps, are you acquainted with a young 
woman, by the name of Jessamine, who lives in this 
vicinity? 

Han. I know everybody as lives within twenty miles 
around, but there's none by that name. Why? 

Jes. Jessamine is my name, too. 

Uan. Well? 

Jes. I've been told, that a young lady by the name of 
Jessamine is a good friend of your son. 

Han. Friend of Pue? Don't you let them fool you. 
Pue ain't got no friends. When there's a dancing party, 
and Pue's around, he always i)icks the ugliest girls, just 
to spite the good-looking ones. 

Jes. How good of him. Do you live here all the year 
round, Mrs. Phelps? 

Han. All the year round. You're cutting them 
turnips too fine. 

Jes. Docs your son stay here all the time, too? 

Han. I don't believe he's slept in this house twenty 
times in two years. He travels all over the State. 

Jes. What does he do ? 

Han. Don't ask me, child. If I wasn't his mother, 
I'd say he was born without a tongue. He never opens 
his mouth except w^hen he eats. Nobody knows anything 
about his business; sometimes I think he doesn't know 
hisself. But I've heard tell he's making heaps of 
money. But what good is money to a man, that doesn't 
care what he eats and what he wears? If you'd run 
across him in the woods, you couldn't tell him from a 
sixty- cent a day wood chopper. But he's got a fine 



IN THE OZARKS. 273 

horse. He took some gentlemen from New York through 
these parts some time back, and I heard one of them 
offering him $500. Cost me $600, Pue says. Now, mind 
you, I don't believe that; but he didn't sell him. 

Jes. Must be a fine horse. 

Han. Pue and he is alone in the woods together for 
weeks at a time. Pue says, he likes his horse better 
than men and women, because the horse is honest and 
doesn't jabber nonsense. But Pue is good to his mother. 
The only fusses we ever have is about the hired girl. 

Jes. I haven't seen her yet. 

Han. No, and you never will. Next year, I'll be 
all by myself. Pue is going to take Daisy to the Ceme- 
tery. 

Jes. Cemetery? 

Han. Yes ; it's a kind of a school. Pue says Daisy is 
got to be a fine lady like you. 

Jes. Why, Mr. Phelps has never seen me. 

Han. He hasn't? Well, I wonder if Abe is picking 
them turkeys. You just go on with them turnips; if 
we don't get them for dinner, we'll eat them for supper. 

{Exit Mrs. P. L. U. E. 

Jes. I wonder whether I shall ever meet this myste- 
rious Mr. Pulaski Phelps. 

Han. {ivithout, calling) Pue, O Pue! 

Jes. {startled). There he is! {Listens.) 

Han. {without, after a pause). I don't understand 
{another pause). All right, all right. Don't get mad 
about it. 

Jes. I wonder what is the matter. 

18 



274 IN THE OZAEKS. 

Enter Trdsten R. D. F. with a bundle of papers. 

Jes. Ah, Mr. Keene. 

Tru. Mrs. Idle. You did not expect to see me here, 
did you? 

Jes. I thought it was Mr. Phelps. 

Tru. {at his desk). Are you disappointed? 

Jes. 1 am. 

Tru. Too bad. You see, Mr. Phelps is the star actor 
in this play, and the star ought not to appear as soon as 
the curtain rises. 

Jes. If this keeps on, I'm afraid the audience will have 
a show without a star. 

Tru. That's what we call an all-star performance now- 
adays {unlocks the desk and removes a sprig of 
Jessamine from the lapel of his coat). 

Jes. I thought that was Mr. Phelps' desk. 

Tru. So it is. But you see, I am authorized. I carry 
his kej's. 

Jes. You must be very intimate. 

Tru. I am his best friend. You'll pardon me, if I 
work here a little while ? 

Jes. Certainly. You see, I am busy myself. 

Tru. {occupied at his desk loith an account hook., his 
hack to Jes.). I'll be through in a few minutes. 

Jes. If you prefer, I'll leave the room. 

Tru. No, no, don't do that. This work is merely 
mechanical : I can talk to you at the same time. 

Jes. {after a pause). Will all this land be under 
water when the lake is made? 



IN THE OZARKS. 275 

Tru. Oh, no. We are upon the ridge, more than two 
hundred feet above the river. 

Jes. Does Mrs. Phelps know of her son's plans? 

Tru. Nothing whatever. (^After a pause ^ turns in his 
cliaii\ rises and approached Jes.). You haven't spoken 
to her in reference to it, have you? 

Jes. I was instructed to speak of it to no one. 

Tru. Mrs. Phelps is one of the best women in the 
world, but, as you have no doubt observed, she is, 
what shall 1 say, — rather animated. It would not be 
right to trust her with the keeping of an important 
secret (^sits at desk, back to Jes.). 

Jes. You are a conceited man, Mr. Keene, and there- 
fore speak ill of women. I dare say, you know very 
little about them. 

Trie. I am learning fast. But I have likewise met 
some women that misjudge men. 

Jes. Does that refer to me? 

Tru. Yes. 

Jes. What do you mean?. 

Tru. For instance, that you are mistaken in me. 

Jes. In you, Mr. Keene? Why, I have never given 
you a thought. 

Tru. Oh, yes, you have. 

Jes. Then, please tell me what I think of you. 

Tru. You think, Mrs. Idle, that I am not honest. 
You think that Mr. Phelps would not give the keys to 
his private papers to another man. You think I have 
no right to do what I am doing. 

Jes. Now that you have said it, I confess that you 



276 IN THE OZARKS. 

have guessed correctly. Mr. Keene, when you entered 
you wore a sprig of yellow jessamine on the lapel of 
your coat. Why did you remove it ? 

Tra. The woods are full of them hereabouts. 

Jes. Now, Mr. Keene, unfortunately, that is not true. 
Yellow jessamine neither grows nor blooms in the Mis- 
souri woods, in any place or at any time. 

Tru. {shrugs his shoulders.) 

Jes. You bought them at a florist's in the city, and I 
am going to punish you for this fib {very sloivly), by 
telling Mr. Phelps that you are wearing his lady's 
colors. 

Tru. I see you are not to be deceived. I bought 
them for you. {Crosses to Jes., and gives her the Jiow- 
ers.) Your name, too, is Jessamine. Will you wear 
them for me? 

Jes. {Fastens the flowers in her bosom.) I will let it 
pass at that, this time, Mr. Keene ; but you must 
promise, never to do it again. 

Tru. That is asking too much. — When you are through 
with the {looks into the dish) turnips, and have no objec- 
tions, I should like to take you to the top of the hill, and 
show you the landscape {reticrns to his desk). 

Jes. Shall we meet Mr. Phelps there? 

Tru, You make me jealous, Mrs. Idle. 

Jes. {cuts her Jlnger and drops the knife. Cries) Oh! 

Tru. {after closing his desk). What have you done? 

Jes. Nothing; cut my finger {holds her hand high 
to check the bleeding). 

Tru. {C). Let me tie it up {takes out his handker- 



IN THE OZAKKS. 277 

chiefs looks at it and puts it back again; tears a strip 
from Jes.' apron). That's better. 

Jes. What extravagance! Just like a man. Have 
you no court plaster? 

Tru. No. (Sloiuly ties up Jes.' Jinger with considerable 
siiperjluous linen, so that the ends are long enough to 
be wound and tied about her wrist. (Jes. smiles at his 
awkwardness). * 

Jes. Not so tight. You are not buckling a saddle 
girth on your horse. 

Enter Hannah, L. U. E. 

Han. What are you doing ? 

Tru. Playing doctor. 

Jes. I cut my finger, Mrs. Phelps. 

Han. (^coming forward). May be you did. But 
there weren't no call to rip a piece off my best apron. 

Tru. Charge it to me. 

Han. {looks at them someivhat surprised, and goes to a 
cabinet for court plaster). Let me look at it. {Pushes 
Trustsn aside, and unties the bloodstained bandage, 
ivhich she hands to Trusten, who now stands behind the 
table.) Throw it out! 

Tru. ( Goes to window as if to throw out the bandage, 
but puts it into his pocket.) 

Han. {holds a piece of court plaster to Jes.' lips). 
Lick it. 

Jes. Thank you. That's ever so much better. 

Tru. Will you go with me now? 

Jes. With pleasure. {As she turns to take her hat, 



278 IN THE OZARKS. 

Trdsten with a gesture, his finger on his lips, admonishes 
Mrs. Phelps not to discover him. Jes. draivs down her 
left sleeve.^ And shall we meet Mr. Phelps? 

Tru. Well, if we meet Mr. Phelps, it will be all over 
with Trusten Keene. 

Jes. {Tries to draw down her other sleeve , but her cut 
finger interferes.) 

Tru. Permit me. 

Jes. Is Mr. Phelps such a handsome fellow? 

Tru. So, so. 

Jes. Better looking thauj^ou? 

Tru. Oh, no. {Exeunt Jes. and Tru. R. D. F. 

Han. {looks after them in loonder). That boy is 
crazy and that woman is in love with him as sure as I 
p.m alive. Pue always was kind of queer. He ran 
away from me when he was a boy, because he wouldn't 
work on the farm. But he's done better, so I reckon he 
was right {takes up the dish of turnij^s). Lord, not 
done yet I {Exit L. U. E. 

Enter Daisy, Alan and a Notary li. D. F. 

Dai. She was here a minute ago. 

Al. The coast seems to be clear. 

Dai. {calls and runs L . U. E). Mother! 

Enter Hannah. 

Han. (from luithout). What do you want .'* 

Dai. Two gentlemen here as wants to see you. 

Han. {L. U. E.) Daisy, you go out in the kitchen 



IN THE OZARKS. 



279 



and finish them turnips. Our help from the city has 
taken to the woods with your brother. 

Dai. Is Pue here, mother? 

Han. No, he isn't; at least wise, he don't want to be. 
So better keep your mouth shut. {Exit Daisy L. U. E. 

Al. Mrs. Phelps, this is Mr. Blank, a notary who is to 
witness the C9nveyance of the land. Have you the deed, 
Mr. Blank? (^Notary hands the deed to Al.) All you 
have to do is to sign your name here on this line. 
(^Takes fountain pen from his pocket.) Here's a pen. 
{Motions to the place for the signature ayid gives her the 
pen.) 

Han. (calls). Daisy! Run upstairs to Pue's room 
and get me the ink bottle. 

AL There's ink on the pen. 

Han. (calls). Never mind, Daisy; you needn't 
(examining pen). That a pretty good pen. Keeps the 
ink bottle from spilling all over the table. 

Al. Right here, madam. 




Han. (to Notary). Right here? 
Al. Yes, right here. 



280 ' IN THE OZARKS. 

Han. Hadn't I better read it first? 

Al. Certainly. 

Han. It will take me half a day to read all this. Sign 
here ? 

Al. Yes. 

Han. {hesitates, then determinedly). Gentlemen, I 
think ril let my son Pue read it. If it suits him, I'll 
sign it (folds the deed). 

Al. Just as you please, madam. This gentleman is a 
sworn olficer of the law, under bond to the State. He 
is a notary public, appointed b}'' the governor for just 
such business as this. It's a three hour drive to the 
station {looks at his watch), and unless we can get 
through quickly, we shall be obliged to lie over until 
to-morrow. 

Not. Madam, this instrument merel}" sets forth in legal 
phrase that you convey to Mr. Trusten Keene forty 
acres of land for a consideration of twelve and a half 
dollars an acre ; total, 500 dollars. According to the 
description the laud lies just west of the strip on which 
this house stands, and extends from the road down to 
the Pebble river. 

Han. {to Al.). Trusten Keene ; is that your name? 

Al. No, madam, I am buying for a friend. Here is 
the money ; ten fifty-dollar bills {lays the money on 
the table). 

Han. {handing the money to the Notary). Forty 
times twelve and a half, does that make five hundred ? 

Not. Yes, ma'am. 



IN THE OZAKKS. 281 

Han. (^counts the bills). There's tern of them. It's a 
big piece of land for such a little pile of money. 

AL The bills are large, madam. 

Han. Any larger than the regular fifty-dollar bills ? 

Al. (laughs). No. 

Han. (to Notary). You count them. 

Not. (counts the money and returns it to Han.). Five 
hundred dollars. 

Han. All good money ? 

Not. All good money. 

Han. (takes the peniuhich Al. offei's, is about to ivrite, 
then lays down the pen). Before I sign this, I want to 
know just one thing more. Why does Mr. Keene want to 
pay me twelve and a half dollars an acre for a strip of 
rocky land, without a single stick of good timber on it, 
when an expert testimony told me only an hour ago, that 
it ain't worth more than two dollars an acre? Can you 
answer that? 

Al. Well, Mrs. Phelps, I don't know, that it is any of 
your business. If you are willing to sell, and we are 
willing to buy, that's all there is to it. Perhaps we have 
discovered a gold mine on it. 

Han. Such things have happened before. But you 
are on a cold scent if you're hunting for gold. Pue has 
inspected every acre of land we own, and where he 
didn't find gold, such as you can't even find dirt. 

Al. Well, there's no secret about it, Mrs. Phelps. 
Mr. Keene is a wealthy gentleman, who comes here to 
fish and shoot ; he intends to build a sort of permanent 
camp here. 



282 IN THE OZARKS. 

Han. {signs the jiaper and pushes it over to Al.). 
There's your land. 

AL Thank you, madam Q^uts the deed in his pocket) . 
To be honest with you, Mrs. Phelps, I am entirely of 
your opinion ; Mr. Keene is payinof too much for this 
land. A smart man would have got it for less thun 
five thousand dollars. 

Han. Five hundred, you mean. 

Al. Yes, of course, five hundred. Good morning. 

(Exeunt Al. and Not. E. D. F. 

Han. (sits on the bench, counts the money once more 
and p)laces it in the bosom of her dress. Reflectively). 
The best offer Pue ever got for his land was six dollars, 
and here I've sold half of mine for twelve and a half, 
and the barrenest piece in the whole tract, too. When 
Pue hears of this, he'll say, mother, I believe I inherited 
all my smartness from you. That's what he alwaj^s 
says, when I show m}" good sense. But the first man's 
going to see this money is Mr. Plenty. (Contempt- 
uously) Two dollars an acre. (Calls) Daisy! (No 
answer.) Then I'll send Abe to find him. (Calls 1 U. 
E.) Abe, Abe! 

Enter Felix R. D. F. the telegram in his hand. 

Fel. Mrs. Hannah, I'm looking for Jessamine. Here's 
a telegram. Have you seen her? 

Han. Oh, yes. 

Fel. Where did she go ? 

Han. She is admiring the landscape with — (catches 
herself). 



IN THE OZARKS. 283 

Fel. With whom? 

Han. With a gentleman. 

Fel. I did not know you had any out here? 

Han. Oh, yes; got one; one besides you. Say, did 
you meet two men as you were coming in? 

Fel. No, ma'am. Only saw Abe and Daisy sitting on 
the ^toop at the kitchen. 

Han. Mr. Plenty, is this good money? 

Fel. (^examines the bills and exhibits alarm). Where 
did you get it? 

Han. That's not the question. I want to know if its 
good money? 

Fel. Yes, it's good money. 

Han. Give it to me {restores the money to the bosom 
of her dress). 

Fel. How in the world did ten fifty dollar bills ever 
stray into this neck of the woods ? The biggest I ever 
saw around here was a silver dollar. 

Han. {arms akimbo, with aii air of superiority). 
You think you're smart, don't you? I've heard Pue tell, 
you had as many millions as I've got cats ; but if you'd 
take me to a big city where there's any money around, 
I'd bet, this old woman would beat you yet! 

Fel. I am afraid, Mrs. Hannah, that you have done 
something stupid. 

Han. If selling two dollar land at twelve dollars and a 
half is stupid, I'd like to know what you call smart? 

Fel. Why, you stupid old woman, don't you know 
that the house alone, without the land, is worth twice as 
much as you got there? The trouble is, you never saw 



284 IN THE OZARKS. 

a fifty dollar bill before, and the sight of ten of them set 
you crazy. 

Han. Go slow, Mr. Plenty, go slow. I didn't sell 
him no house. 

Fel. Doesn't the house go with the land.^ 

Han. No. 

Fel. Going to move it? 

JIan. Ain't going to move it either. The house stays 
ri^ht where it stands. What I sold, was the forty acres 
longside, which vou said wasn't worth two dollars, and 
which I sold for twelve and a half to Mr. Kecne. 

Fel. Mr. Keene? 

Han. Sold them to Mr. Trusten Kecne. 

Fel. Was he here ? 

Han. No, he couldn't come hissclf, so he sent a 
friend to buy in his name. Trusten Kcene is the name 
what appears in the — insterment ; yes, that's what he 
called it, insterment. 

Fel. What kind of a looking man was his friend? 

Han. Kind'cr nice looking, with a big ring on his 
finger. 

Fel. Alan! Well, there's no use talking about it any 
further. Next time you sell any land, consult your son, 
or some other male friend before you close the deal. 

Ha7i. I shall do nothing of the kind. If I had told you 
about it this morning, you would have said, Mrs. Hannah, 
let me attend to this business for you. You'd turned 
the money over to me and said, the land's worth only 
two dollars, but I'm so all-fired smart, that I sold it for 
you for twelve and a half. That's what you would have 



IN THE OZARKS. 285 

done, Mr. Plenty. No, sir ; when Hannah Phelps has 
the ingernuity to turn a penny, she doesn't only want the 
money, but she wants the credit for her smartness, too. 

Ftl. {aside). Trusten must have been a little off, when 
he told me he had all the land. How could he have 
overlooked this most necessary tract of all. Well, we've 
got it now. I wonder how much Trusten paid Alan for it. 
I'll just keep quiet and let them fight it out. {Aloud) 
Where is your son ? 

Han. He's been around here all morning. No, no, no, 
that's a mistake ; he told me, he Vv^asn't here at all. I 
don't know anything about him. 

Fel. How does he look? 

Han. With two eyes, Mr. Plenty. 

Fel. Isn't it odd, that I should never have seen your 
son in all my life ? 

Han. But isn't it odder, that I should never have seen 
my son in all my life, either? If you want him, you'll 
have to find him. I'll not show him to you. 

Fel. As long as geese have any feathers, they will be 
plucked. 

Han. What are you snarling at? 

Fel. At your ''ingernuity," Mrs. Hannah. Solomon in 
all his wisdom, was a blockhead compared to Hannah 
Phelps. (Exit Felix E. D. F. 

Han. {looking after him). The old fellow is getting 
jealous of Hannah Phelps ; thinks he's the only one's 
got a right to make money. I wonder if Pue's the 
same way? 



286 IN THE OZARKS. 

Enter Trusten L. U, E. (unlocks his desk, and dur- 
ing the next j^cissages, takes the bandage from his pocket, 
folds it carefully, and after sealing it in an envelope, locks 
it in a small compartment of his desk). 

Han. Mr. Plenty is looking for you. 

Tru. I can't see him now ; I am very busy. In fact 
I must have this room all to myself for awhile. 

Han. Pue, I want to ask you something. 

Tru. (locks his desk). Not now, mother dear; I have 
no time {kisses her). There, now, go into the kitchen. 

Han. I'd like to know — 

Tru. You can ask me this afternoon, or this evening, 
and then I'll tell you all about it (^gently urges her out). 

Han. But it's burning me — (Exit Han. L. U. E. 

Tru. This is the day and the hour. I've gone over the 
papers again ; every inch of the land is ours. He got 
my thousand dollars three days ago, and may be in Can- 
ada or Mexico before now. He'll never come for the 
other four. He simply played me for a thousand. But 
what of it? (Looks out of the windoio.) I'd give fifty 
thousand to have him gone for good. (Quickly draios 
the shades and curtains, and locks all the doors.) (Some 
one knocks R. D. F.) Come in ! ( Unlocks the door.) 

Enter Alan R. D. F. 

Tru. I thought you had forgotten all about our little 
deal (locks the door). 

Al. Oh, no. I couldn't afford that. This is the 23d, 
is it not? 



IN THE OZARKS. 



287 



Tru. Yes. Have a seat. 
Al. Thanks {sits). 




Tru. {sits). Have you the deed? 

AL {takes the deed from his j^ocket). Oh, yes. 

Tru. {extends his hand). Let me see it. 

Al. {places the deed on the table., and puts his hand on 
it). Have you the money? 

Tru. Here it is {places a package of bills on the table 
and puts his hand on it), 

Al. You don't seem to trust me. 

Tru. Nor you, me. 

Al. {throivs him the deed). Take it {reaches for the 
money). 

Tru. Hands off ! ( Opens the paper, and luhen he sees 
the name of his mother, he controls himself with diffi- 
culty. Rises.) Hannah Phelps ! 

Al. {rises). Is the money mine? 

Tru. { Throws the package of bills to Alan's side of the 
table, and occupies himself reading the deed.) 

Al. {puts the money in his inside coat pocket). I'll 
take your word for the count. It's not the money alone 
I'm after. Uncle Felix is divorcing me from my wife, 
and that cuts me off from his fortune. I've put him in 



288 IN THE OZARKS. 

your power. You can make him poor, or force him to 
give you his girl. That's my revenge. Now let me 
out. 

Tru. The sum here mentioned is five hundred dollars. 
I gave you five thousand. 

Al. Five thousand. 

Tru. That's a good day's work, Mr. Idle. 

Al. Trustcn, I want to get out of here. The old 
woman — 

Tru. {severely). Mrs. Phelps, if you please. 

Al. She'll do nothing quicker than tell her boy about 
the fine trade she mide, and then it wouldn't be good 
for my health to meet Mr. Pulaski Phelps. 

Tru. Pulaski Phelps shall do you no harm. 

Al. (^growing uneasy at Trusten's formal manner). 
I wish to leave. If you don't unlock the door, I'll 
go through the window {advaiices toward the icindoio). 

Tru. {stops him). One moment. You stand right there. 
{Leads hfm to the i2. , unlocks the door to the kitchen and 
calls.) Mother! 

Al. {frightened). Mother! {Takes a revolver from his 
hip pockety and puts it into Jiis side coat pocket.) 

Enter Hannah L. U. E. 

Ilan. {ivithoiit), I'm coming. 

Al. I did not know that, Trusten ; I swear to God, 
I didn't. 

Tru. Mother, how much land did you sell this gentle- 
man.'* 

Ilan. {gleefully). Lord, he knows it already. 



IN THE OZAEKS. 289 

Tru. How much land did you sell him ? 

Han. (^firmly). I sold him the forty acres 'longside, 
aiid he gave me five hundred for it. Here's the money. 

Tru. Forly acres in all? You didn't sell him the 
other forty ? 

Han. No. 

Tru. Th it's good (^aside, looking at the deed). If he 
had bought the other forty also, I'd have to buy it 
now by the foot instead of the acre. (^Aloud). How 
many times did you sign your name? 

Han. Only once. 

Tru. This is the paper you signed? 

Han. Yes. 

Tra. You are positive this is all. 

Han. Yes. (Tru. examines the conveyance.) 

Han. I suppose the young feller is sick of his bargain. 
If he'd a asked Mr. Plenty, he could have found out it 
was only worth two dollars. But a bargain's a bargain. 
The money is mine, and the land is his'n. I mean what 
I say, Pue, and I'll not give the money back, though 
you stand on your head for it. 

Tru. {still reading). I've just bought the land, 
mother. It's mine now. Five thousand dollars. 

Han. Five thousand dollars ! You crazy fool ! Why 
didn't you ask me? I'd a given it to you for nothing. 
Here! Here! {urges her money on Tiiu.) Make him 
give your money back, Pue. Five hundred is all it's 
worth. Here! here! Make him give it to you back; 
make him give il to you back ! 

19 



290 IN THE OZARKS. 

Al. A bargain's a bargain, Mrs. Phelps. You said so 
yourself. 

Han. Make him give it to you back ! (Tru. crosses 
to desk.) 

AL If he does, he'll have to run faster than I can. 
{Moves rcqndly t02oard kitchen.) {Exit L. U. E. 

Han. What have I done, what have I done! 

Tru. There, mother {kisses her). Say no more about 
it. It was my fault more than yours {throws aside cur- 
tains a7id unlocks door R. D. F.). This has taught me 
a lesson which is worth as much as I paid for it. Come, 
now ; get your dinner ready ; our guests will shortly 
return. 

Ha7i, Oh, the villain ! 

{Exit Hannah, weeping^ L. U. E. 

(Trustkn sits down at his desk in silence. He is dis- 
turbed in his reverie by a knock at the door, R. D. F. 

Tru. {indifferently). Come! 

Enter Jessamine R. D. F., Trusten's flowers in her 
bosom. Appears alarmed. 

Jes. I'm so frightened, I thought I saw him here. 

Trie. He was here a moment ago. 

Jes. If he hears of It, he'll return. 

Tru. No, 1 think not. He's got five thousand dollars 
in his pocket. 

Jes. {incensed, aside. ) So, that is the way it was done. 
They paid him money to let my suit go by default. 
{Aloud) Did you give him the money? 

Tru. I did. 



IN THE OZARKS. 291 

Jes. What right had you to do that? 

Tru. Your uncle instructed me to buy him off. If he 
had not sold for five, I would have paid him ten. My 
instructions were to buy him off as cheap as I could. 

Jes. Cheap or not cheap, my uncle has no right to 
make me a chattel for buy or sell. I did not wish to 
obtain my liberty by bribe or blackmail. My course is 
righteous and requires no underhanded means. Five 
thousand dollars. So that's my price (^sarcastic). 
Well, I'm glad my uncle thinks so much of me. 

Tru. You are making me your confidant. 

Jes. Not I, but my uncle. 

Tru. How so? 

Jes. Did he not show you this telegram ? 

Tru. (^extending his hand for the telegram). No! 

Jes. {alarmed). Then — why — the — money? 

Tru. The money I gave him was for a strip of land. 

Jes. (^stares at Trusten chagrined and agitated). 

Tru. (^drops on his knees beside her). Pardon me, 
pardon me, for what I have done. I had no right to let 
you speak ; but every syllable pertaining to your freedom 
sent such thrills of joy to my heart, that I could not 
desist from letting you speak, what I had no right to 
hear. 

Jes. Mr. Keene! 

Tru. Stay, stay, until I have told you all {seizes her 
hand). I know it is sinful in a man to speak thus to a 
woman who is the wife of another. Through blunder 
and blindness you are linked to him, but I know, I see, I 
feel, that by every law of God and nature, you are mine 



292 IN THE OZARKS. 

(Jes. tries to release herself). You were born for me, 
Jessamine, and mine you shall be, though all the race of 
man should try to wrest you from me. 

Jes. Mr. Kcene, are you mad? 

Tru. Mr. Keene, no longer. To you the truth — 

Jes, Stop! (after a pa^cse) Your name is — 

Tru. Pulaski Phelps ! 

Jes. O! {liaises her hands towards him in amazement 
then shrinks from him, and turns with bowed head.) 

CURTAIN. 



IN THE OZAKKS. 293 



ACT III. 



SCENE. — Piazza, and grounds of Hannah Phelps' 

HOUSE, piazza on THE LEFT. In THE BACKGROUND, A 
GLIMPSE OF THE RIVER. On THE RIGHT A LARGE BOULDER 
PROJECTS FROM THE RISING GROUND. ThE FULL MOON IS 
VISIBLE THROUGH THE TREES IN THE RIGHT BACKGROUND. 
A RIDGE OF HILLS IN THE DISTANCE. As THE ACT PRO- 
CEEDS, THE WATER RISES, AND THE MOON, THEN SUFFI- 
CIENTLY HIGH, ILLUMINES THE LAKE, CLEARLY BRINGING 
INTO VIEW, ISLANDS, BAYS, PROMONTORIES, ETC. 

Beide, and Jessamine vjith Trusten's ypJlow flowers in 
her hair seated on the trunk of a tree^ B. 

Enter Lily and Arch, from the house, L. 2 E. 

Bei. Coming out to drink a little moonlight, eh ! Well, 
if you don't learn to hold each other's hand on a night 
like this, you never will. 

Lit. Professor, I thought your lady-loves were all be- 
tween the covers of your books. 

Bei. (rises). Yes, I suppose you and Archie imagine, 
that you are the first to discover the art of love-making. 
I tell you, Lil, when I was about Archie's age, I was con- 



294 IN THE OZARKS. 

sidered quite a dashing fellow. (Takes her hand) I can 
remember having kissed a hand as white and slender as 
this. 

Lil. Come with us, Jes. We are going to the top 
of the bluff to watch the moon. 

Jes. (seated). I can see from here. 

Lil. Won't 3'ou really go? 

Jes, Do you really wish me to go? 

LiL and Arc. Why, certainly we do. 

Bei. {again seated by the side of Jes.). Don't you 
see she's ensaged? 

Jes. You proceed ; I may join you later. 

Bei. If 3^ou need a chaperone, why don't you call 
Mrs. Hannah? 

LiL Unless the Professor moves half a yard to the 
left, I shall call Mrs. Hannah to protect Jes. Good-bye! 

{Exeunt Lil. and Arc. R. U. E. 

Jes. Has anybody seen Mr. Phelps to-day? 

Bei. {regards Jes. curiously). I am going down the 
road now to look for him. Come with me. 

Jes. No, I must see uncle Felix. Good-bye. (Jes. 
at R. I. E. Beide at Z. U. E.) Professor, if you 
do not find Mr. Phelps and wish to see him real badly, 
ask Mr. Keene. 

Bei. So. {Exit Beide L. U. E. 

Jes. Why should I grieve longer? The law has set me 
free. {She holds a telegram in her hand.) Have I been 
a slave of misery so long, that I dare not look felicity in 
the face? No! My past life shall be as the past, dead 
and forgotten. {Exit R. 1 E. 



IN THE OZARKS. 295 

Enter Abe and Daisy from the house L. U. E. 

(Abe sits on the trunk of the tree R. 2 E. smoking a 
pipe. Daisy on the stoop of the piazza, meyiding a min- 
now seine. Utensils, such as the dish-pan, the cheese 
bag, etc, seen in Act II may he displayed on the piazza 
and the ivindow sill, to show that this is the exit from the 
kitchen in Act II.) 

Abe, Been down in the big dam, these days, Daisy? 

Dai. No. 

Abe. It's built up solid. All the water in the river has 
got to run through a couple of holes in the dam, no big- 
ger'n a railroad tunnel. 

Dai. This river ain't much for water nohow. You 
ought to see the Missouri. 

Abe. Pebble river will never crawl though them there 
holes when the winter rains come down the mountains. 

Dai. Why don't you tell Pue about it? 

Abe. I told him long ago. I told him when they first 
began buildin', that a bridge would be a good sight safer 
for a railroad than a dam with a couple of holes in it. 

Dai. What did Pue say ? 

Abe. He said, railroading and turkey prowling was 
two different things. 

Dai. Pue thinks he's awful smart. 

Abe. Well, 1 quess he is, Daisy. Leastwise all the 
people says so. But all the same, if them there holes 
ever gits stopped up with a lot of ties and drift-wood 
there'll be a good many drowned rabbits in the bottoms. 

Dai. There, I guess that will do (throws him the 



296 IN THE OZAKKS. 

minnow seine). It's not as even as it might be, but it's 
the best I can do by moonlight. 

Abe, Much obliged, Daisy. It's not so perticilar as 
broidering slippers. 

Dai. How do you know I'm broidering slippers? 

Abe. Cause I seen you more than once, through the 
window. 

Dai. Well, they're not for you, I can tell you that. 

Abe. Yes, they are ; I can tell by the size. 

Dai. Say, Abe, you've got to fight again. 

Abe. Fight? Who's a itchin' for it now? 

Dai. You know that city nigger what Mr. Plenty 
brinsjs along? 

Abe. I'm stuck on that necktie of his'n. 

Dai. So am I. Now listen. He's been teasing me 
about you all d.iy. He 'lows you might be tollable 
strong, but he says you haven't been trained, and got 
no science. 

Abe. I never fit with a nigger. I've heard tell, 
they've got awful hard heads. 

Dai. But they're weak in the shins. 

Abe. Can't hit a man below the belt, Daisy. 

Dai. Well, it's too late now. You've got to lick him. 
I bet him a turkey against his red necktie, that you could 
lay him out with one hand, and he took me up. You 
can't go back on me, Abe. 

Abe. When's he want to fight? 

Dai. First time he sees you. 

(Abe knocks the ashes out of his pipe and goes towards 
house. ) 



IN THE OZARKS. 297 

Dai. Where are you going? 
Abe, To look for the nigger. 

Dai. And I'll call the city folks ; they can watch you 
from the piazza. {Exit Abe into house L. 2 E. 

Enter Trusten, L. U. E. 

Tru. (^points to Abe). Who was that? 

Dai. Abe. 

Tru. You've had about enough of Abe for one day. 
Better go to bed now. 

Dai. {goes towards the house and turns at door). It 
I were in your place, I'd treat my little sister mighty 
nice ; specially when she knows something. 

{Exit L. 2 E. into house. 

Tru. {following to door). Daisy! 

Dai. {from ivithout). Never mind; it's all right. 

Enter Alan R. U. E. 

Al. I'll wait here till she comes again. Well, I'm 
forty-five hundred ahead, and I'll get my revenge besides 
{peers about ^ and looks in at loindoio). 

Tru. Who are 3^ou looking for? 

Al. {retreating). Not you ; I'm on to you. You stood 
in with the old man and steered me up against a cold 
deck. But I've got another string to your lake. 

Tru. Take care, that the end with the noose does not 
get around your neck. 

Al. You've got all the land now, sure enough, but you 
have'nt got the lake, not yet. Here's my forty- five hun- 



298 IN THE OZABKS. 

dred. I'm going to move my address. If you want me, 
write to Paris, France. 

Tru. Don't be in a hurry, Alan; the law can't 
touch you. Unless you are a coward, you'll stay here 
until I can give you a thrashing (^advances), 

Al. (jetreating). Not to-day ; some other day. 

{Exit Alan L. U. E. 

Al. {fro7n luithout). Your lake's in the hole! 

Trie. Idiot! {ExitTnmTEV U. 1 E. 

Enter Daisy from the houses Alan L, U. E. 

Al, {softly). Sis! Hello, Sis! 

Dai. My name's Daisy. 

Al. Where's Abe, Daisy? 

Dai. I'm looking for him myself. 

Al. I want him to take me down to the station in a boat. 

Dai. Abe ain't here now. And if he was, he couldn't 
take you. He's got to fight. Why don't you go by the 
road ? 

Al. I've tried that and lost my way. Crossing the 
valley, my horse got into the water up to the stirrips, and 
I had to return. 

Day. {sits 07i the fallen tree). What are you giving 
me.'* There ain't been any water in the valley since the 
big overflow two years ago last December. There is no 
train now, anyhow; you'll have to wait till to-morrow. 

Al. There's a freight at midnight. 

Dai. It's a through, and don't stop. 

Al. I must go, Daisy; I've got to. Can't you take 
me? I'll give you ten dollars if you do. 



IN THE OZARKS. 299 

Dai. You must be having some mighty good reason 
for wanting to get away. 

Al. I have. I had some trouble with your brother, 
this morning, and by the look he gave me, I know 
he will kill me if he finds me here. 

Dai. If Pue wants to kill you, maybe you ought to be 
killed. What's it about? 

Al. I've no time to tell you, Daisy. Help me to find a 
boat, and show me the way. Here's ten dollars. 

Dai. I don't want your ten dollars. If I take you 
at all, I'll take you for nothing. But what does Pue 
want to kill you for? If you're too mean to tell me, I'll 
just be mean enough not to take you. 

Al. (aside). Now heaven inspire me with some 
plausible lie. 

Dai. Not as I am inquisitive ; if you don't want to 
tell me, you can leave it alone. 

Al. It's all about a girl, Daisy; a girl in the city. 
Pue and I are both in love with her, and because she 
likes me better than him, he's jealous and wants to kill 
me. 

Dai. That's too thin. If my brother, Pue, and you 
were sitting up to the same girl, you'd have no show; 
he'd get her every time. 

Al. Girls are mighty queer about those things. 

Dai. But they're not so crazy as that. 

Al. {frightened). I hear him coming. 

Dai. Come along then. I don't want nobody killed. 

( Exeunt R. U. E. 



300 IN THE OZAEKS. 

Enter Trusten and Beide R. 1 E. 

Bei. Well, Trusten, what do you think of it? 

Tru. I have given my engineer the final orders. 
There's nothing more to be done than wait, wait {throws 
himself carelessly on the stoop). 

Bei. You are gloomy, Trusten. A man in your place 
should be fairly drunk with joy. 

Tru. I am tired, Professor, that is all. My horse and 
I have traveled twenty miles since I saw you. 

Bei. Don't try to deceive me. Something troubles 
you. 

Tru. {walks restlessly up and down) Nothing, nothing, 
Professor. I wish it were to-morrow. 

Bei. And wh}' to-morrow? 

Tru. A strange foreboding weighs heavily uponnie; 
I can hardl}' breathe. Tlie stillness of the forest frights 
me. My thoughts flutter like the birds of the wood 
before a storm. I have never hesitated, never doubted, 
never dreamed of anything but success, and yet — I can 
hardly breathe. The air stifles me. Do you not feel it, 
too? 

Bei. {looks toivard the ivater with a pair of field glasses). 
I think it is one of the finest nights I ever saw. Not a 
leaf stirring, and the moon shines, as If it had been 
polished for the occasion. 

{The waters begin to rise.) 

Tru. An ominous calm, Professor. My nerves quake 
in anticipation of some dread event. As I galloped 



IN THE OZARKS. 301 

through the forest, methinks I saw the genii of the wood 
streaming from the inundated valleys up into the hills. 
When they spied nae, they shouted with a myriad voices : 
" There he goes, there he goes, the spoiler of our homes. 
Kill him, kill him, drown him in his own sinful flood! " 
They tugged and pulled and tried to drag me out of the 
saddle, and then a woman's voice cried "Give him to 
me! '' 

Bei. By George, Trusten, I think I can see the waters 
spreading already. Here, look at it {offers Mm the 
glass). 

Tru. (pays no attention to the water). Plenty had a 
telegram from the city. What was it? 

Bei, I don't know. Perhaps in reference to Jessie's 
suit for divorce. 

Tru. Has the suit been filed ? 

Bei. Yes. 

Tru. Will Alan let it go by default? 

Bei. He can't help himself. 

Tru. Suppose he replies and makes defense? 

Bei. He can't. 

Tru. But if he does? 

Bei. Then I will take the stand and tell them truths. 
I will rehearse a series of offenses, witnessed by my own 
eyes, which will make that wretch, Alan, jubilate if he 
escapes with his life. I have lived in the house since she 
was married, and have witnessed deeds of shame and 
villainy that would set an icicle on fire. Neglect, humilia- 
tion, profanity, violence — 

Tru. Violence? 



302 IN THE OZARKS. 

Bei. Violence; physical, bodily violence. I came upon 
them once, when he had choked her into a swoon, and 
was wrenching the rings from her fingers. I myself 
helped her to her room, and washed the blood from her 
lacerated hand. 

Tru. {with great effort at self-control). I beg of you, 
Professor, let me alone. I must think. 

Bei, Since which occurrence, they have been married 
in name only. 

Tru. How long is that? 

Bei. Six weeks after the wedding. 

Tru. Five years! {Down R.) Great God! 

Bei. Here comes Uncle Felix. 

{Exit Trusten, L. U. E. 

Enter Felix /rom the house L. 2 E. 

Fel. {crosses R.). Nobody here? 

Enter Lily, Arc. folloiving R. U. E. 

Lil. Keep away from me ; don't touch me. I am done 
with you forever (0. ). 

Fel. Come here, my child. 

Lil. O Uncle Felix, I am so unhappy {Jlings herself 
in Felix' arms). 

Fel. {carressing her). There, there. {To Arc.) What 
have you done to my child? 

Arc. {on porch tapi^ing his shoe with a switch). 
Nothing, Mr. Plenty. I assure you that I am not 
responsible for this burst of temper. 

Lil. {turns to Arc. ivith snapping eyes). I am glad I 



IN THE OZARKS. 303 

found you out in time, Mr. Upper. Burst of temper! 
You've got a burst of temper. He is trying to tyrannize 
me already, uncle, and wants to lay down rules for 
my conduct. 

Arc. My aunt is an authority on good form, and she 
holds that when a girl is betrothed, she ought no longer 
accept attentions from other men. 

Lil. And when I consented to meet him half way, 
he's as stubborn as a mule, and won't budge an inch. I 
am willing to give up two out of my four engagements, 
but I am not going to give up the opera with Mr. 
Wagner, nor the races with Mr. Derby. 

Bei. It appears, Archie, that you are beginning rather 
early. 

Arc. The standing of our family, Professor, demands 
that the woman to whom I am aflBanced be punctilious 
in observance of accepted usage. My aunt opines, that 
from the moment a woman is promised in marriage, 
she should be dead to the rest of the world. 

Lil. {with spirit). I could name you a dozen young 
ladies, who would give their little fingers to get the 
invitations which you want me to regret. But, that's 
not the worst of it, uncle. He flatly told me that 
he would not permit — permit, that's the very word you 
used, Mr. Upper — that he would not permit me to go to 
Europe with you next summer, to buy my wedding 
trousseau. {To Arc). Do you suppose I am going to 
buy my trousseau at the Blue Front Bargain Store down 
at the station, where this morning I couldn't find a lilac 
ribbon to match my hat? Yes, you'll see me walking up 



304 IN THE OZARKS. 

the church-aisle {imlks) looking like a fright, and all the 
best people of the city crowded in the pews and poking 
fun at mc. 

Fel. Don't worry, Lil. I'll attend to tUe wedding: 
you shall have everything that money can buy. 

Lil. I knew you would think as I do. You dear old 
uncle. And you'll take me to Paris once more to get 
my trousseau, won't you? 

Bei. By your leave, 1 would suggest, that the young 
people take another walk up the hill. Perhaps, they will 
now be better able to formulate a treaty. 

Arc. I am not captious, Professor, but m}^ aunt holds, 
that young people engaged to be married, should come 
to an understanding in regard to these matrimonial 
preliminaries right in the beginning. My aunt — 

Fel. She isn't going to marry your aunt. 

Lil. Nor him either, if he persists incessantly to quote 
Jiis anti-antiquarian aunt. 

Arc. {rising). Miss Lily, I must beg of you to speak 
of my aunt only in terms of respect. 

Bei. 1 advise you both not to speak of her at all. 

Fel. My child shall have a wedding like a princess, Mr. 
Upper. 

Arc. (to Beide). I do not propose that our ancient 
family shall be entirely ruled and overrun by Ihe erratic 
whims of newly-gotten wealth. 

Fel. If that remark is intended for me, sir — 

Arc. I am addressing the Professor, whose wisdom 
enables him to look on both sides of a question. No 
one appreciates the necessity of money more than I do, 



IN THE OZARKS. 305 

and I'll freely confess, that I would not marry a poor 
girl were she as wise as Pallas and as beautiful as 
Helen. But money is not everything in this world. 
There are some things, that cannot be bought or sold, 
and among the&e, are the unwritten laws of propriety and 
tact, which every gentleman and every gentlewoman 
intuitively feels without being told. 

Bei. He who has no money in his purse, should have 
honey in his mouth. 

Arc. Money is not everything, Professor. 

Fel. Right you are, my boy, money is not everything ; 
and I truly envy your noble ancestor, who gave up his 
life to free our country from the yoke of England a 
hundred years ago. Yes, I would gladly exchange my 
millions for the privilege of having been shot by the 
British redcoats at Lexington bridge, like your great- 
grandfather. But what has that to do with you? You 
did not die there any more than I did. All your greatness 
lies yet before you, still to be achieved. And as to the 
age of your family tree, Mr. Mayflower, your pedigree 
dates back precisely as far as mine, or my niggers ; for 
according to Scriptures we all sprang from Adam. 

Lil. {goes from Fel. to Arc. lolio appears deeply 
offended). Don't answer him, Archie. I'll give up the 
opera, unless you take me ; but you must let me go to 
the races with Mr. Derby just to spite the other girls. 
Do, let me, please. 

(Arc. kisses Lily). 

Lil. (^gleefully). And, uncle, while you are speaking 

20 



306 IN THE OZARKS. 

of money, Archie has a little book he wishes to show you. 
Show it to him, Archie. 

(Aug. exhibits signs of displeasure.) 

(LiL. takes a memoranduyn book out of Archie's 
pocket.) 

(Arc. takes the book from Lil.) 

Fel. Let me see it. 

Arc. (^the book in his hand). On the night I asked 
your consent to marry your niece, you gave me a lot of 
good advice. 

Fel. Yes, sir ; good advice. 

Arc. And interlarded the same with a promise to give 
me ten dollars for every one I saved. 

Fel. Yes, sir. 

Arc. If you have no objection to let the agreement 
operate ex post facto from the beginning of the present 
year — 

Fel. Young man, you are not as stupid as you — 

Arc. The ins[)iration comes from her, Mr. Plenty. 

Lil. It's no more than fair, uncle, for Archie and I 
have been engaged for over a year (C). 

Fel. So ! And 1 hear of it only two weeks ago. Give 
me the book. 

(Lil. takes the book from Arc. and hands it to Fel.) 

Arc. The book contains memoranda of my income and 
expenses. 

Fel. According to which you have saved a trifle over 
one hundred dollars. 

Lil. {looking into the book from behind him). One 
hundred and six dollars and twenty cents, uncle. 



IN THE OZARKS. 307 

Fel. The book is complete and correct? 

Arc. Yes, sir. 

Fel. And you have no debts ? 

Arc. No, sir. 

Fel. (^examines the book and reads). " Flowers, thea- 
ter, carriage, tailor, supper." Hem! Next year it will 
be rent, coal, doctor, nurse, baby-carriage. 

Enter Abe, George, Hannah, L. U. E. 

Han. You can't do no fighting here. 

Fel. Who's going to fight? 

Han. Abe and your nigger. 

Fel. What are the stakes? 

Han. Abe's betting a wild turkey against the nigger's 
red neck- tie. 

Fel. Well, that's worth while. 

Han. You ain't going to fight here. 

Abe. I won't hurt him much. 

Fel. Let 'em fight, Mrs. Hannah; they'll not kill each 
other. Arciiie, you act as referee. 

Lit. Go ahead, Archie ; I'll stand on the piazza with 
Mrs. Phelps. I've always been dying to see a real prize- 
fight. 

Fel. George, you've got your nerve with you. 

Arc. Queensbury or London ? 

Abe. Anyway, till one of us is knocked down or hol- 
lers enough. 

Arc. {to Geo.). You stand over here. (To Abe) 
and you here. — Time! 

(George and Abe spar for aiohile. Geo. is imable to 



308 IN THE OZARKS. 

reach Abe, who hits Geo. repeatedly on the head without 
result), 

Bei. No use hitting him on the head. 

Han. Kick him in the shins, Abe. 

(After further sparrijig, Geo. runs at Abe anc? butts 
him in the stomach; Abe falls.) 

Abe. Enough. 

Geo. I've been trying to think of that the last five 
minutes. 

Fel. {coming up). Foul. 

Geo. Judgment! 

Ha7i. {on porch). That ain't fair, that ain't fair. 

Arc. (stepping between). George wins! Abe said 
everything goes, and he went. 

Abe. (rising). I did not know I was going up against 
a goat. 

Geo. (ont of breath). Where's my turkey? 

Abe. He's roosting in the woods yet, but you'll get 
him before sunrise, as sure as I can pull a trigger. 

Geo. If it's all the same to you, Abe, get me a possum. 

(A scream is heard.) 

Abe. That's Daisy. 

(Exeunt all but Lil. R. U. E. Hannah throtus 

aside a large shawl. 

Enter Trusten L. U. E. 

Tru. What's the trouble? 

Lil. O, Mr. Keene, I'm so glad you came. I believe 
somebody has been drowned. 



IN THE OZARKS. 309 

Tru. Drowned? Who? 

Lil. We heard a noise from down there; just as if 
someone had fallen into the river, and then a scream. 
Abe said it was Daisy, and they all rushed off. 

Tru. If it was Daisy, don't fear. She'll not drown. 
She has swam the river with me more than once when it 
was bankfull. But it may have been some one else. 

(A noise of crackling branches is heard.) 

Tru, Who's there? 

Dai. {from without). It's me ! 

Lil. Thank the Lord, she is safe. 

Tru. {to Dai.). What's the matter with you? 

Enter Daisy, R. U. E, 

Dai. {hurrying towards the house). I'm wet. 

Lil. Here! {Throws the shawl, large enough to cover 
her completely, about Daisy's shoulders.) 

Dai. Ugh ! but the water is cold. 

Tru. What has happened ? 

Dai. {sits on the stoop and takes oj her muddy shoes) 
Give me a chance to catch my breath. When ma 
comes, Pue, tell her I'm all right. 

{Exit Daisy into the house L. 2 E 

Lil. I hope she'll not catch cold. {Trij . takes the glasses 
andlooks at the lake.) What did she call you, Mr. Keene? 

Tru. Pue. 

LiL Pue? What a funny name. 

Tru. It isn'tas pretty as Lily or — Jessamine. 

Lil. Is it a nickname, or what they call an alias? 

Tru. Neither. If you wish to see something, take 



310 IN THE OZARKS. 

theso glasses and get up on the boulder. Look over 
there. {Gives her the glasses.) 

Lil. Thank you, Mr. , may I call you Pue, for 

short, too? 

Tru. If you do, I shall call 3^ou Lil. 

-Bnier Felix, Beide, Archie, Hannah, II. U.E. 

Han. Is she here? (^Calls) Daisy! 
Ti'u. She's all right. She went in to put on some dry 
clothes. 

Enter Daisy from the house. JSits on the stoop to tie her 
shoes. Hannah opens her hair to let it dry. 

Fel. You gave us a bad fright, Daisy. Abe and George 
just got through with their fight. 

Dai. Who won? 

Fel. George. 

Dai. I don't believe it; you're fooling. 

Fel. George is a scientific pug, he fights with his 
head. 

Han. How did you come to fall in the river? 

Dai. I didn't fall in the river. There was a man 
come along here and said he had to go to the station 
rjo^ht away quick. I told him there was no train till to- 
morrow, and he said, he would flag the midniglit freight. 
He meant what he said, for he offered me ten dollars to 
take him. 

Tru. Did he tell you why ? 

Dai. Said you would kill him if you caught him here. 

Tru. What's his name? 



IN THE OZARKS. 311 

Dai. Don't know. He's been round here all day. 

Fel. Heigh, Trusten ! Don't bullyrag that young lady, 
if you please. You're not her elder brother. 

Tru, What has become of him? 

Dai. Give me a chance. To cut it short, we got in the 
boat, and I pulled about a hundred yards down stream, 
when I saw there was something wrong with the river, 
for you can believe me or not, it's a running up hill. If 
you don't believe I'm telling you the truth you can go 
down to the landing, and look at it yourself. 

Tru. Never mind, go on. 

Dai. It's no use, says I to him, we can't make it. 
Says he, we've got to go, and then he offered me a hun- 
dred dollars. I pulled with all my might but I couldn't 
get no headway to save my life. He was awful excited 
and I was getting afraid of him. I'd given a good deal 
to be on shore again, I can tell you. But Daisy Phelps 
ain't no fool. Says I to him, we'll cross over and go 
down on the other bank. I couldn't have pulled across 
that river any more than fly ; but he didn't know that. So 
I turns the boat round and pulls right back to where we 
started. I knew what he would do as soon as he found out 
what I was after, and so I hugged close to the bank. When 
he saw we were near the landing again, he jumped at 
me and tried to take the oars away from me. That made 
me mad, and I wouldn't let him. When he found out he 
wasn't strong enough to get the oars, he struck at me, and 
then the boat upset. 

Lil. Heavens ! 

Dai. I swam to some willows and crawled out. It 



312 IN THE OZARKS. 

wasn't more than ten yards, but I tell you, swimming 
with skirts and shoes, isn't as easy as swimming without 
them. I am glad I got out. 

Tru. And where is he? 

Dai. If he can't swim, I guess he's drowned. Abe's 
gone to look for him. Come along. I'll show you the 
place. 

{Exeunt all but Tru. R. U. E. 

Enter Jes. R. 1 E.^ Trusten's Jioioers in her hair. 

Jes. Mr. Keene! 

Tru. Yes. 

Jes. What a rare night. {Up-) See how the moon 
ligbts up the crests of yonder hills. It grows as bright 
as day. 

Tru. (aside). My flowers in her hair. Patience, pa- 
tience, Pulaski ; if you lose her now, you lose her forever. 
(Remains at some distance from Jes.) 

Jes. (turning toivards Trusten). When did 5'ou 
close the dam, Mr. Keene? 

Tru. At sundown. 

Jes. (cUmbs on the boulder R. and looks towards L.). 

Tru. (aside). What shall I say to her? I feel that 
whatever I say will ruin me. 

Jes. Look over there. See, how the waters have 
spread ; it was but a slender thread a little while ago 
(Trdsten looks as she directs, but does not move). 1 can- 
not understand how you can look on so indifferently 
while this, your life's great work, is there evolved. How 
can you stand there idle? If something should go 



IN THE OZARKS. 313 

wrong. {Comes down near Tru.). Why are you not 
down at the dam? 

Tru. (^Turns toward her. Emphatically). Because I 
am here ! 

Jes. {regards him intently and then drops her eyes. 
Suddenly). My^ uncle should know of this, and the 
Professor, and ajl the rest of my people. You told me, 
we were all to be here, to see the rising flood. I will 
call them. {Noise as of distant thunder.) 

Jes. It is thundering. We are going to have a storm. 
{Runs up on the piazza, then turns.) Come in! 
Startled). Look, Mr. Keene, look at the water! 
( The ivater sloivly subsides. ) 

Tru. {mounting the boulder). Great God! I felt it 
would end thus. 

Jes. What has happened ? 

Ti'u. The water has forced an underground passage. 
The lake is lost ! Not a vestige of it will remain. I 
knew it. I knew it! The elements hate the meddling 
hand of man. 

Jes. Can you not mend it ? Is there no hope ? 

Tru. None, none! Like a rash gamester, I have 
staked my life's labor on the cast of one die, and here I 
lose, lose all ! 

Jes. No, no ; not all ! 

Tru. Jessamine! {He embraces her.) 

Jes. {extricating herself). But the lake! 

Tru. What care I for the lake. The world is full of 
lakes. It was but a trick, a toy. Let it go back to 
nature, whence it came. 



314 IN THE OZARKS. 

Jes. But you must go and try to save it. 

Tru. I would not stir an inch to save a wilderness of 
lakes I My life, my love, even so to-day, I held you 
once before. 

Jes. And now it is I that holds you. 1 am not in my 
right mind, Pulaski: I know not what I am doing. I am 
a poor, weak creature, that in a few brief days has be- 
come as wax in your hands. But you must love me, 
Pulaski. Tell me, tell me, that you will love me until the 
end of time ! 

TnL. {kisses her rapturously). O Jessamine, Jessa- 
mine ! 

Jes. You are great and brave and strong ; and your 
greatness will bo mine, and your power, and your strength, 
and your courage ! 

Enter Beide R. U. E. 

Bel. {starts). Shall I go or stay? 

Jes. Look at the lake, Professor. 

Bei. Am I blind? Where is it? {Mounts the boulder.) 
For God's sake, Pulaski, what has become of it? 

Tru. Vanished, vanished like a fairy vision in a 
dream. 

Bei. And you here, idle? For shame, Pulaski, saddle 
your horse! Your place is at the dam. I'll guard her 
until you return. Perhaps it is not a subterranean 
break ; it may be something else. Go, Pulaski, while 
there's life, there's hope. 

Jes. Go, go, Pulaski! If not for your sake, go for 
mine! 



IN THE OZARKS. 315 

Tru. Farewell! (^a;^i Tru. L. U. E. 

Jes. That is the way love rides ! 

Bei. But I pity the horse. 

Jes. (^mounts the houlder). Oh, for a pair of wings, 
that I might fly. 

Bei. Come, now Jess, that's enough. If I had known 
you were going to play such pranks, I would have tied 
you hand and foot, and left you at home. 

Jes. You couldn't have done it, Professor, you 
couldn't have done it. 

Bei. {leads her from the boulder). My dear girl, it 
is time you were coming to your senses. 

Jes. Did you see how he rides? Like the storm! And 
his arms, Professor, all oak and iron. I never knew until 
now what a man is like. And he loves me, Professor, 
loves me with all his courage and power. He held me 
in his arms, and I am his, and he is mine, and we are one. 

Bei. Perhaps it will sober you up, if I remind you, 
that you have a husband. — 

Jes. {elated). Spyak not to me of a husband. I 
have no husband {throws him the telegram). Speak to 
me only of him ; or if you cannot speak of him, do not 
speak to me at all I {Exit Jes. L. 2 E. into house. 

Bei. {picks up telegram and reads). The divorce has 
been granted. 

Enter Felix R. U. E. 

Fel. Look there, look there, Professor I Look, look ! 
The lake, the lake ; the lake has gone to hell. 
Bei. So it seems. 



316 IN THE OZARKS. 

Fel. A million, Professor. What will my friends on 
change say? Huge joke on Felix Plenty. Dropped 
a million in a blind pool. That rogue, Pulaski Phelps, 
has made a beggar of me ; stolen every cent I've got. 

Bei, I'd be right well content with what still remains 
to you. But the rogue has stolen something. 

Fel. And you knew it? 

Bei, Just saw him do it. 

Fel. Saw what? 

Bei. Saw him steal your elder niece. Jess and 
Pulaski Phelps have sworn eternal love. 

Fel. You'll drive me mad. Where is he? I'd like 
to lay these hands on him. But he's as slippery as an 
eel's tail. I've never so much as seen the villain. 

Bei. Here comes your niece. 

Enter Jes. from the house L. 2 E. 

Fel. What's that I hear? The Professor tells me you 
have met this man Phelps, and want to marry him. 

Jes. The Professor always tells the truth. 

Fel. Not if I know it. Not this time. I have hardly 
drasfo'ed you out of the frying pan, and now you want 
to jump into the fire. I tell you, Jessamine, if you 
marry this rogue, Phelps, I'll disown you, I'll disinherit 
you. Instead of leaving you a million, I'll cut you off 
with a cent. 

Bei. Why, Felix, I thought yjur money was all gone? 

Fel. Speak to me, Jess. 

Jes. Please, not now, uncle {goes to him). 

Fel. Don't try to wheedle me. Speak! 



IN THE OZARKS. 317 

Jes. Some other time, uncle. You are too excited, 
now. There are some men in the kitchen asking for Mr. 
Phelps. Has he returned, Professor? 

Fel. No, and he never will. He isn't here, and he 
wasn't here, and he never will be here, nor anywhere 
else, either. If this ignis-fatuus ever dares — 

Jes. {laughing). Oh, he'll dare. 

{Exit Jes. L. 2 E. 

Enter Hannah and Daisy E. U. E. 

Fel. Did you find him ? 

Han. No, but here's a coat that Abe found in the 
willows {gives the coat to Felix). 

Dai. It's his'n. He took it off when he tried to take 
the oars from me. 

Bei. Search the pockets. 

Fel. Whoever it was seems to have been pretty well 
fixed {takes a package of bills from a pocket). Ail fifties ; 
brand new from the press. 

Bei. Is there anything else ? 

Fel, A letter. For Mr. Phelps. 

Bei. I'll give it to him. 

Fel. { Throws the coat to Beide, and viciously tears open 
the letter.) 

Bei. That's against the law. 

Fel. Damn the law. {Reads.) "Mr. Keene Phelps: 
How do you Hke the lake? I spoilt it's face, didn't I? 
Well, I am sorry for the lake, but I had to do it to get 
even with dear old uncle Felix. Allen Idle. P. S. Had 
I known who you were, I could have sold you something 



318 IN THE OZAEKS. 

besides forty acres of your own land. Likely you'll get 
her for nothing now! " {Puts letter into his pocket.) 

Bei. Here's another letter, and for Jess. 

Fel. I'll take that too (Tears the letter open and 
reads.) "Jessie, old girl, good bye! You will never 
see me again. I've worked the old man for five thousand, 
and have the money in m}^ pocket." Have you? I 
think I've got the most of it right here. {Reads.) " It's 
more than I ever expected to get out of him. I guess, 
you are glad to get rid of me. If you ever feel lonesome 
for a second husband, I know where 3'ou can get a good 
one for nothing. If you don't know whom I mean, just 
ask Pulaski Phelps." — I am glad Alan Idle is dead! 

JIan. That is not a Christian wish, Mr. Plent3^ 

Fel. Well, if it isn't, it ought to be. 

Enter Abe and George holding a rough looking man 
whom they hustle on the stage. 

Abe. Here's the fellow what did it. 

Fel. So we've found him at last, have we? {Ruhhing 
his hands in demonic glee.) Well, I'm very glad to see 
you, Mr. Pulaski Phelps. 

Han. For the land's sake, Mr. Plenty, you think 
that's my boy, Pue? 

Fel. Who else can it be? 

Bei. Plenty! 

Abe. It's the fellow what blowed up the dam with 
dynamite. 

(Felix makes a rush for the man.) 



IN THE OZARKS. 319 

Don't spoil him, Mr. Plenty; we want to keep him 
good and fresh for Mr. Pue. 

Geo. I found this in his clothes. ( 6r wes Plenty some 
•money. ) 

Fel. Two fifties. 

Geo. He says a gentleman gave him the hundred to 
blow up the dam. 

Fel. (^Comparing the money with that found in Alan's 
coat.) Exactly. The serial numbers fit to a unit. 

(^A galloping horse is heard to approach.) 

Enter Trusten. 

Tru. {from without). Safe! Safe! The lake is 
mine! 

Dai. That's Pue!- 

Tru. {eiitering embraces his mother, sister and then 
the Professor). Rejoice with me, the lake is mine ! Pro- 
fessor, the lake is mine ! Mr. Plenty, your lake is safe ! 

Fel. Safe? Hell! It's blown up with dynamite. 

Tru. Dynamite! Ha! Ha! What care we for a 
handful of dynamite! (To the man.) You damn rascal: 
I almost feel like hugging you too. 

Fel. What's the matter with you, Trusten? 

Tru. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Fifty thousand 
dollars will rebuild the dam, and the clouds are full of 
water. I never dreaded the puny villainy of man, but 1 
trembled with the fear, that God and nature were my 
foes. Where's Jessamine, Professor? 

Bei. I'll call her. {Approaches house.) Jessamine! 



Vt\r\ t 



320 IN THE OZARKS. 

Fel. Profes3or, come along. Let us miike one final 
search for Mr. Phelps. {Exit L. 1 E. 

Tru. (Calls.) Jessamine! 

Enter Jessamine. 

Jes. {from ivithout.) I'm coming. 
Tru. {to Jes.) The lake is safe ! {They rush into 
each other's arms.) 

Enter Felix L. 1 E. 

Fel, Trusten Keene! Man alive! Ha! ha! ha! 
Good for vou, Trusten, good for j'ou. {Laughs vehe- 
mently. ) Good for you ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Bel. Do you see anything funu}'? 

Fel. {Pointing.) There, there! {Takes I^vadv. aside 
softly.) Say, Professor, that's a good one on Pulaski 
Phelps. Truaten's got her now. {They chuckle, but 
softly !i0 as not to disturb Trusten's subsequent lines.) 

Tru. (7^0 Jes.) Yonder crest is named Mount Jes- 
samine. Thtre I will build my home, and there 1 will 
take you, and there you shall be my queen. 

Bei. {Leading Fel. up by the hand.) Mr. Plenty, per- 
mit me to introduce you to Mr. Pulaski Phelps. 

Fel. {Collapses on the stoop of the piazza.) Well, I'll 
be— 

H. 
CURTAIN. 



DRAMAS. 



THE REBEL'S DAUGHTER. 

(By J. (t. Woerner and Ohas. Gildehaus.) 



INTO THE OPEN. 

IN THE OZARKS. 



BY 

CHAS. GILDEHAUS. 



716 



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